The Case of the Masked Gypsy
by GirlInTheMask
Summary: A missing ballet master. A peculiar stare from a dancer. And a masked vigilante with unclear motives, and an odd choice of dress. It's another case for Sherlock Holmes. But who is this woman? And why is she trying to get his attention? Set after "A Game of Shadows".
1. Beautiful Decline

_My very first mystery, and Sherlock Holmes story!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing having to do with the movies or books. The movies belong to Warner Bros. and the books belong to whoever owns the rights to them. However, any original characters are mine._

_A/N #1: In case anyone's wondering, yes, I did name this chapter after the song by Abney Park. I thought it would make a great theme song._

_A/N #2: "English italics in quotation marks" = translated French._

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**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Prologue – Beautiful Decline

_City of London  
__March 1__st__, 1892_

The early morning sun shined weakly through the lightening gray clouds over the equally as gray city. It was March, but winter still seemed to have its hold on her, determined to keep its cold, hard grip for as long as possible, until the golden light in the sky finally broke through the barriers in its way. Though truthfully, the city of London didn't expect much, since sunny days over any area of it were rare. Still, though it was about half past eight, and the gas lamps were still lit, the city itself was already bustling with activity, whether it be honest or not. Cabs rolled down almost every street, the sounds of the hooves of their black, brown, and sometimes gray horses against the road being heard by those near or far away. Both men and women, in upper and middle class dress, walked down the streets – the men in long strides, the women in short strides – sometimes together, and sometimes alone. And every now and then, ragged children could be seen. While some would be happily playing games such as hide-and-seek, others would be doing what they could just to survive the bitter cold and great hunger that had been forced upon them.

It is said that significance can come from the most unlikely of persons. If that is the case, then no one among this great sea of people could have guessed the crucial role that one young girl among many in their city would play in the suspenseful drama that was about to unfold.

Inside the chemist's store she stood, in her plain brown dress, coat, and fingerless gloves, a girl of the middle class. The few other people inside barely noticed her, and she preferred to keep it that way. Had they known who she really was, they probably would have asked high favors of her, favors she couldn't, and very likely shouldn't, grant. The only time she did tell someone outside of home her name – or in this case, her father's name – was for business reasons. Other than that, she preferred to keep a low profile.

She soon received what she'd asked for – a small medicine bottle containing a dark liquid – along with the instructions on how to use it. She nodded and gave only a hint of a smile.

_"Merci,"_ she said as she paid the man and put the bottle into her pocket. Yes. She was French and not English. But it wasn't necessary to hide that fact. There were others like her in the country, and she could speak English as well.

"Good day, _M__ademoiselle_," the chemist replied.

She nodded again and then walked out of the store, back into the grim, dense city that awaited her. Thankfully, most of the mist seemed to have cleared, as she could actually see several feet in front of her. She could have taken a cab if she wished, but she did not need nor want to. She knew the way back from here, and she liked walking. Somehow, being on her feet just seemed to help her think better, even if the sights that greeted her were not always ones she wanted to greet.

One was a rough-looking man sleeping sprawled out on the doorstep of the first house she walked by. She could see traces of wine on the sides of his mouth, and dark circles under his eyes. Apparently he'd been out late the night before, had a bit too much to drink, and passed out before he'd gotten to the door. If he had a wife, she likely didn't care enough to get him inside, otherwise she would have fetched him by now. She sighed, as she couldn't help but pity the man. Though she was also glad that her father wasn't of his kind.

Her papa was Jean-Pierre de Beaumont, ballet master of the local opera house, and she had the privilege of being his seventeen-year-old daughter, Esmé, as well as one of his dancers. They lived at the house along with her orphaned cousins, Josette – another dancer – and Victor, both of whom by now had been living with them for ten years, ever since their own father was tragically killed by a mysterious gunslinger.

Her papa had fallen ill only yesterday, and she had to wonder why, since his health was excellent, even at his current age of fifty. She really had no reason to worry more than she needed. He showed symptoms only of the common cold. Still, she stayed by his side through most of the day, even missing morning rehearsal with the other dancers. Today she was on her way home after getting medicine for him, medicine she hoped would help him recover quickly.

Being the sort of person who can't look at just one thing for long, Esmé allowed her eyes to wander. On the other side of the road, she chuckled when saw a black dog being chased by a boy of about ten or eleven years. But then, her heart sank when she saw a man on the same street, sleeping on the pavement in ragged clothes, under at least a dozen newspapers in a likely desperate attempt to get warm. No matter how many people like him she saw, she always pitied them greatly. As much as she dreamed of dancing for the crown heads of Europe, she yearned to help the poor and downtrodden of the city she always somewhat hesitated to call home, though she didn't really know how.

A third sight came into her view, one that caused her eyes to widen. 221B Baker Street. It was a flat that looked like any other she'd ever seen in the city, but in this one lived the greatest detective in the country: Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Her papa and Victor were admirers of his, having read books about his escapades written by his former flatmate, Dr. John Watson. Esmé herself was impressed after hearing about what he'd done only in the previous two years, stopping two of the most notorious criminal masterminds on the continent. From what she heard, he had a remarkable list of abilities, from being an accomplished scholar and chemist to an expert marksman, a superb violinist to a master at hand-to-hand combat and disguise.

But of course, what he was most well-known for was his brilliant deductive mind, his greatest weapon with which he used to drive the criminal underworld of Europe mad. It was said that he could tell all sorts of things about a person he'd never even met simply by observing them for a few seconds. For some reason, this frightened Esmé somewhat. She actually managed to run into him a few times since she'd come to live in London, the previous one being just over a week ago. She could only wonder what he'd possibly deduced about her, with those brown eyes which – every time she'd seen them – seemed only to reflect fierce concentration, perhaps on a case.

While she knew he likely wouldn't harm someone like her, every time she came across him, the man never failed to send a shiver up her spine. However, she soon pulled her own concentration back on her own mission as soon as she passed the flat: getting this medicine back to her ill papa.

Just then, a big splash of muddy water came her way. Before she could react to it, the left side of her skirt was wet. Though he couldn't see her, she glared at the cab as he drove off, wishing she could make him pay for hitting that puddle and getting her last clean dress dirty, even if it was an accident. Even so, she continued on, hearing her black boots against the pavement. Suddenly though, she felt a short but freezing gust of wind, and she shivered. She then took the head scarf that covered her head, and wrapped it around her face and above her nose, both to keep from catching cold herself and to prevent the smelling of bad scents that passed her by every now and then. In nearly five years of living here, Esmé never got completely used to London, and doubted she ever would. Though Paris was similar, at least it was somewhat decent. However, nothing could prepare her for the level of indecency, if not savagery, of the next great sight she beheld.

On the street opposite of hers, she caught a small but still rather prevalent commotion going on, one that filled her with great alarm. Outside a flat stood two men in fine dress – though one was finer than the other – and another man in somewhat worn dress, with a woman holding a small boy at his side – likely his family. Even from where she stood, she could hear the frantic pleas of the poor man addressed at one of the wealthy men.

"Please Sir!" he cried, "I beg of you! I promise you I can pay rent as soon as I am able!"

"If you can't pay me when you're supposed to why should I allow you to live here?!" the other man snapped back.

"Sir, I told you," the poor man said, "My business is running slow, and my rent money has been stolen! Please, have mercy!"

The wealthy man stood in silence for a few seconds, almost as if contemplating the poor man's plea, until suddenly, his eyes turned to the woman next to him. Specifically, Esmé noticed, at the strand of pearls around her neck.

"Very well, I shall consider your request," he said as he took a few short, intimidating steps toward her, "That is, if you will consider mine."

He then took his forefinger and slowly traced the necklace with it. The sight filled the poor man, his wife, and Esmé with silent dread.

"If you are willing to part with this, rather exquisite, pearl necklace, perhaps we could both think of it as, compensation?" he asked with a bit of a snake-like smile.

The woman's hand instantly went to her necklace, causing the man to pull back his finger.

"Sir, please don't," she said, shaking her head, "It was my mother's."

"Then I'm sure it's worth a fine sum of rent money," the man pressed her.

The poor man, suddenly looking angry, got between his wife and the other man. "Sir," he said in a firm tone, "you will let my wife be or…"

"Or what? Are you threatening me?" the man asked, raising his voice. Without waiting for a reply, he swiftly took the woman's necklace, causing both her and Esmé to gasp in alarmed unbelief.

"For that I shall keep your wife's necklace even if you do manage to pay me, for this time and the next!" he angrily declared.

Esmé's heart instantly felt heavy. Feeling the overwhelming need to do something, whether or not it would help, she shouted out in English, "No! You can't…"

Suddenly, before she could finish, the other, more finely dressed man, turned around and glared at her. She immediately stepped back in alarm, both in reaction to such an expression directed at her, and at recognizing the man's face. She'd seen it several times before, and she knew his name. Lord Richard Wellington, a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth, the managers of the house she and her family lived in. Though why they were friends she could never figure out why, because the few times she'd come across the man she thought of him as conceited and arrogant. However, with his ominous looking gray eyes, she couldn't help but wonder every time she'd seen him whether he was hiding something under his posh and respectable exterior. In fact, she wouldn't have been surprised if Scotland Yard had at least one file on him.

Why he was here with this landlord, she didn't know. She then heard weeping, and when she saw the woman crying while her husband held her, Esmé's heart leaped to her throat. But when she looked back at Wellington, and saw that he was still glaring at her, her feet seemingly gained a mind of their own, for – not knowing what else to do, and sadly accepting that she could do nothing to help – Esmé took her skirt in both hands and ran down her own street, almost frightened by the expression now stamped in her mind.

As she got further away, weaving through groups of people and not caring what they thought of her, one question after another emerged. Why did Wellington glare at her like he did? Did he even recognize her, considering that half of her face was hidden by her scarf? And why was he with that landlord, whom she'd never seen? Clearly, something was not right, and she didn't like it at all.

Esmé didn't stop running, but now, she ran as a way to vent her slowly rising anger, rather than escaping her sudden fear. She was angry not just because of the incredible injustice she'd just witnessed, but because she knew that the police – nor Sherlock Holmes, whom she somewhat admired – would not stop that landlord, at least not any time soon, simply because the man and his family were poor. She'd learned not long after she'd come to live here that both were content to keep themselves occupied with cases involving those of the higher classes. While not dismissing those as unimportant, Esmé thought that cases involving those like that poor man and his family were just as important. Why did they have to go unnoticed simply because they weren't "respectable"? It only angered her more when she remembered just how many people in this city were in similar situations.

Esmé could feel her face flush, thus keeping her somewhat protected from the cold. She slowed down back to a walk and let go of her skirt, still keeping her scarf wrapped around her head and face. She found herself solemnly remembering how the woman said that her necklace had once been her mother's. This scarf was special to Esmé for that same reason. Her own maman had made it and given it to her on her twelfth birthday before she… No. She didn't want to think about it. She couldn't. And yet, the day her beloved maman passed away was the saddest day of her entire life. She would never forget how much she, Josette, and even Victor, wept at her bedside on that darkest of nights, Esmé shedding more tears than she had ever before, or since, shed. She remembered how her father kissed her hand repeatedly, wet it with his own tears, and said her name over and over, "Mirela. Mirela."

This scarf in hindsight seemed almost prophetic, with its black material in a way symbolizing her mother's death, as much as its sewn-in white material seemed to symbolize the light of heaven. Still, though it may have been haunting, Esmé would always cherish this last birthday gift from her.

She walked on, not stopping, and knowing it would be past nine when she got back. Even when her feet slowly began hurting, she continued at the same pace, until at last she came to her home: the opera house. Only months after her mother died, her papa had gotten an offer to be the ballet master here. He thought it a good opportunity – since there were only half a dozen others in England at the time – but Esmé also wondered if it was because he wanted to get away from the sadness that she had seen plague him since her maman's death. So, despite her private objections, she and her family went to live in London. Though she'd considerably warmed up to it since then, it still didn't feel completely like home.

She quickly ran across the street, looked for and located the usual entrance, on the side of the building and closed off to the general public, and walked in, breathing a sigh of relief at escaping the outside cold. _Will spring never arrive?_ she wondered after walking up the short flight of stairs and past the next door. She didn't receive an answer, but she did receive an immediate greeting.

"Esmé, there you are!" Josette rushed over to her, apparently having been waiting for her. "Where have you been?"

Esmé rolled her eyes a bit. Though Josette was eighteen, one year older than she, why did she have to be so bossy?

"I've been getting medicine for Papa," she replied, "Did no one tell you?" She quickly took out the bottle to prove herself and then removed her gloves, coat, and finally her scarf, revealing her almost black hair, pulled back in a ponytail with braided bangs.

"Why didn't you take a cab?" Josette asked.

"I woke up early."

"No matter," Josette shook her head, clearly dismissing her, "In case you don't remember, rehearsal starts in less than half an hour. You could have missed it again!"

Esmé looked and saw to her far right that the rest of the dancers wore their hair up and were outfitted in their white tutus, tights, and pointe shoes, stretching onstage. She did admit that Josette was not completely without reason to worry. Only a week from today they would be dancing in a new opera, as goddesses foretelling the future of a newborn Egyptian prince. And while Esmé did want the very best show as much as Josette was, her first concern for now was her father.

"No I couldn't," she said as she looked back at her cousin, "I know my way around. I should after living here for five years."

She then took up the medicine bottle and walked away from Josette, both to get away from her bossiness as well as to find her father, though she quickly looked back and said, "Yes I will join you as soon as I get this to Papa."

"We will be starting with or without you!" Josette called.

"I assure you you'll start with me!" Esmé called back.

She then looked forward again – and just in time as she was about to run into a curtain – and then continued her way to the deeper parts of the house. But soon, before she could get to the stairs that led to the lodgings on the next floor, someone behind one of the corners held out a small skull with long hair attached to it, making her let out a short but loud scream. Immediately after, she heard a laugh that she instantly recognized, much to her annoyance and frustration. Out stepped her other cousin, Victor, Josette's younger brother.

"Oh I'd love to see _that_ face in a photograph!" he laughed.

Esmé briefly allowed herself to wonder why an intelligent fifteen-year-old boy like him could still possess some level of immaturity.

"Oh, you little wretch!" she sneered through gritted teeth before proceeding to pinch him, hard, causing him to let out a short cry of pain. "You could have made me drop the bottle!"

"That hurt!" Victor complained as he rubbed his pinched arm.

"Good!" Esmé exclaimed, "Now if you'll excuse me I must tend to Papa!"

She then moved on her way up the stairs, past her pest of a cousin, and into the hallway on the second floor. She first went to the room she and Josette shared to put away her gloves, coat, and scarf, and then, at last, went to the door that led to her father's room. Taking a few seconds to calm down after her more than frustrating encounter with Victor, she smiled and knocked on the door four to announce herself before opening it.

"Papa?" she said, "I brought you the…"

She stopped before she could finish, as she saw, to her sudden alarm, that her father wasn't in his bed as she'd seen him before she left. The covers had been pulled back, indicating that he'd simply come out of bed. But still, not only did it not make sense, but Esmé had the ominous feeling that something was wrong.

"Papa?"

She closed the door and looked both left and right. Still, she didn't see him. She then looked toward the window, which was slightly opened, as it was when she left. She swiftly ran over to it, opened it fully, looked out, and called, "Papa?"

Against her hopes, she received no reply, save for the sounds of the cabs outside, and Londoners going about their daily business, while her current situation was anything but daily. She closed the window until it was slightly opened again, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She assured herself as many times as she could that there was likely a reasonable explanation, but that shadow of doubt never left her. Even so, she left the room and decided to go back downstairs.

"Victor!" she called out.

"I'm sorry, I won't do it again!" he called back on the first floor.

She met him at the foot of the stairs. Thankfully, he'd gotten rid of the skull, but she quickly brushed aside any ill will she had toward him.

"Victor," she said, "Papa is not in his room. Did you see him come through here?"

"No," he shook his head, "I thought he was sick."

"He is," Esmé agreed. She wanted to call him a half-wit, but decided not to, for although Victor was somewhat annoying, he was not stupid. "So why would he leave his bed?"

Victor smirked. "Perhaps he went to use the privy?"

Esmé was not amused. "Funny," she smiled a fake smile. Then, looking more serious at him, she said, "Wait here." She then went back the way she came, to the stage where she had last seen Josette. She saw her with the other dancers, dressed as they were, and hurried across the stage toward her.

"Josette!"

"Esmé!" Josette exclaimed once she saw her, the expression on her face showing both concern and frustration. She then pointed in the direction of the dressing rooms. "You need to get dressed! Rehearsal starts soon!"

Esmé stopped herself from rolling her eyes, wanting to look as serious as possible. "Josette," she said as calmly as she could, "I can't find Papa. I went to his room to give him his medicine and he wasn't there as I had left him. Have you seen him?"

Suddenly, Josette's expression changed, showing only concern without a hint of frustration, concern for her _o__ncle_. "No, I haven't," she replied, "Are you sure he wasn't there?"

"It's a small room, Josette. Not much space to hide."

"Have you asked Victor then?"

"Yes," Esmé nodded, "He hasn't seen him either."

She then turned to the other five dancers, trying to keep her heart from racing any further, and asked, "Have any of you seen my papa?"

They all shook their heads, frowning, and said one after another, "No. I'm sorry. I haven't seen him."

Esmé felt that uneasy feeling in her stomach get even more intense. She then decided that she had to ask every person in the house, hoping at least one of them knew where her father was. She proceeded to ask the stagehands, then the concierges, then the musicians, but all gave her the same answer she received from her cousins and the dancers: No. They had not seen him.

After she had asked the musicians, Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth – a somewhat finely dressed couple and both sporting blond hair and blue eyes – came down to the seating area to watch the dancers rehearse their scene, and their eyes widened when they saw that, while Esmé was on stage, her hair was still down and she wasn't dressed to perform. Luckily, Mrs. Ashworth quickly saw the now clearly worried look she wore.

"Esmé, what is wrong?" she asked, "Why are you not ready?"

"I've been looking for my papa," Esmé replied, "He's missing and no one has seen him. Perhaps, you have?"

"No Esmé," Mrs. Ashworth, "I am sorry."

"I have not seen him either," Mr. Ashworth spoke up.

Esmé could feel her breathing grow shorter. Now she was sure, as she had guessed before, that something was very wrong. Feeling that she had to do something, anything, to continue her search for her father, she asked, "May I go search his room again?"

Mrs. Ashworth nodded. "Yes, of course."

_"Merci,"_ Esmé returned the nod, ran off the stage, and headed through the house back to the stairs, where Victor still waited for her as she'd told him. Concerned only with getting answers, she ran past him without speaking.

"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked.

"No," Esmé replied as she hurried up the stairs as fast as she could. Once she made it to the top, she dashed back into her father's room, still vacant, to her silent dismay. She then quickly, but carefully, looked around the room for any kind of clue other than the pulled back blankets. She looked in both the wardrobe, and underneath the bed, but found nothing out of the ordinary.

_"Très étrange,"_ she muttered. _Very strange._

She then sat on her knees, staring at the wooden floor, and before long, she began feeling hot, fresh tears spring up in the back of her eyes. Deciding to wait a little longer before she would let them flow, however, she looked up at the window again, wishing that some golden ray of hope would shine through it, and into her heart, when suddenly, her eyes caught something near the corner of the room behind her father's chair.

Thankful for any possible lead, Esmé quickly rubbed her eyes dry, and squinted at the sight. It looked like a small, folded piece of paper, one she didn't recall seeing before. She got back up on her feet, walked over, and picked it up, where a black seal – one she didn't recognize – on one side of the folded paper greeted her. Knowing very well that this wasn't a business letter – otherwise it would have had a red seal – she quickly opened it, and found a short message – one she could not have imagined – written in fine, black ink.

**_Do not bother looking for him._**

**_J.M._**

Upon reading it, Esmé's eyes instantly widened as much as they could, she let out a small gasp, her heartbeat went for full force, and she let go of the medicine bottle that she forgot she was carrying, causing it to fall to the floor and break against it, a poignant realization of the shattering of her calm state of mind. Her papa hadn't willingly left his room, he had been taken by force. He had been kidnapped.

But when? And how? These questions as well as countless others, instantly flooded into Esmé's mind. She barely knew where to begin. All she knew for sure was that she had to tell the others. With the note in hand, she hurried out of the room only slightly faster than when she'd previously come back in, rushed down the stairs, and screamed, "Victor! Josette! Everyone!"

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_Reviews would be appreciated._


	2. Something in the Eyes

**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Chapter 1 – Something in the Eyes

Inside a lone flat in Baker Street, the great detective Sherlock Holmes was content sleeping in the comfort of total darkness, when suddenly, out of nowhere it seemed, a bright light flooded itself into his closed eyes, causing him to immediately awaken. He quickly sat up in his bed – with its tossed about blankets, one on the floor – and saw, to his dismay, that his bothersome landlady Mrs. Hudson had drawn back the curtains.

"Gracious Nanny!" he exclaimed with a rough voice as he rubbed his sagging eyes, "Are you trying to blind me?!"

"Is that your wish?" she asked with slight sarcasm.

"Heavens no!" Holmes replied, clearly frustrated at being disturbed, "Now, would you please be so kind as to let me be and rest?"

"In case you don't remember, Mr. Holmes," she said, denying his request, "most of the world operates by day, so you might as well go along with it."

Holmes replied with a remark of his own, "Well may I remind you that most of the criminal underworld operates by night, therefore leaving me with little choice but to often remain awake after dark?"

Mrs. Hudson could only sigh and roll her eyes. "Then I suppose you will be willing to miss having Dr. Watson and his wife over for tea this afternoon?"

Holmes' eyes widened, and he instantly changed his behavior. "Oh, oh, yes. Yes, thank you for reminding me."

"My pleasure," Mrs. Hudson smiled before walking out of the room.

Once she left, Holmes looked at his clock, and to his horror he saw what the landlady didn't tell him. It was one-thirty. Watson and Mary would be here in just an hour! He wanted to kick himself for forgetting, and he wanted even more to kick those arsonists he'd somehow managed to catch last night. Arson wasn't an easy type of crime to solve, and he barely slept after taking the case. Still, he did solve it in half the time Inspector Lestrade probably would have.

But now wasn't the time to beat himself up. He had guests coming, and even he wouldn't be so rude as to be unprepared. After looking in his mirror and seeing his bedraggled appearance, he concluded that it would be good to wash up, and so he immediately set to work preparing for the arrival of his old partner.

But at two-fifteen, a series of knocks were heard on the front door. Without his permission, Mrs. Hudson did not hesitate to answer it. She quickly smiled upon seeing a well-dressed Watson and Mary. Before any could say a word, however, Gladstone, having just been unleashed and apparently wanting to escape the cold, rushed inside the flat and up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to mind though.

"Oh the poor fellow," she pitied him, "He must have been freezing out there."

"The weather has been most unusual," Mary agreed as she and her husband walked in, "But spring should arrive soon enough."

"Let's hope it does," Watson added behind her, "The streets are almost impossible to walk on, they're so frozen over. I very nearly slipped, twice."

"Well it's wonderful to have you both over," said Mrs. Hudson.

"It's wonderful to be over," Watson smiled back as he walked up the stairs, Mary and Mrs. Hudson following. They soon joined him in front of a familiar door. Watson knocked on it with his walking stick and called for Holmes. After getting no response, he opened the door, but still, he wasn't there. "Where is Holmes? Is he…"

"Here at all?" a voice from the right finished for him. Watson, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and even Gladstone looked up to see Holmes. Though he looked presentable, Watson could tell by the mere look in his eyes that he'd probably rushed, and had a lack of sleep.

Still, Holmes managed a smirk as he walked over to meet them. "Right you are. But, you know you really should arrive when you say you will. Did no one teach you that it's rude to be early as well as late?"

Watson gave only a ghost of a smile at his old friend. "It's very good to see you too. However, don't you think it's also rude to overlook your other guest?"

For a moment, Holmes didn't know what he was talking about, until he noticed a lovely young woman he immediately recognized standing beside Watson. Realizing the mistake he made, and right in front of his good friend, he quickly turned his attention to Mary.

"Yes," he agreed with Watson, "of course." He then took Mary's hand and said, "Good day Madam," before kissing it.

Mary smiled only slightly. "Good day Mr. Holmes."

"Care for some tea?" Holmes then asked as gestured inside the room to the left, "Nanny has really outdone herself today."

"Only because you were caught up in 'more important' matters," Mrs. Hudson spoke up.

Holmes' eyes widened at her remark. "Which we 'must' bring into discussion I gather?"

In an attempt to break the tension, Watson smiled as he walked into the room and said, "Well, I for one cannot wait to taste what you have made Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson returned the smile, always welcoming his compliments after dealing with the near madness of the man he somehow called his "friend". Holmes and Mary followed his lead inside, with Mrs. Hudson following behind them.

Minutes later, Watson retained his smile after his first sip of the landlady's tea, clearly indicating his opinion before he even voiced it. "Well, Holmes did not lie Mrs. Hudson," he said, "This is most excellent."

"I'm glad you like it," Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"Yes, I suppose it's good enough," Holmes added, causing her smile to slightly disappear, though whether he really meant it or said it simply to spite her she didn't really know.

Either way, he didn't notice, as he was eyeing the handmade scarf around Watson's neck, clearly made by Mary. Not that he disliked her. In fact, he'd actually come to appreciate her since she offered her service in the single most important case of his career. Still, he could never get used to the notion that Watson chose a rather boring life empty of the escapades the two shared together.

Watson opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped when he noticed a somewhat boldly red mark above Holmes' right wrist.

"What happened?" he asked.

Holmes looked down at his arm and saw what he meant. "Oh, one of those arsonists from last night tried to burn me," he replied in a matter-of-fact voice, "They were crafty, the whole lot of them, and not willing to go down without a fight."

"Clearly," Watson concluded.

"How bad was it?" Mary asked.

"Quite painful actually," Holmes replied in the same tone, "A second-degree burn if I am correct."

"Why didn't you come to me then?" Watson asked.

"Because I am perfectly capable of tending to simple wounds like these," Holmes replied.

Watson nodded, accepting his reasoning, but he also could tell there was more to it than simply that. "And I suppose you're also keeping to your word you gave to me all those months ago?"

"Quite right you are," Holmes agreed. The previous year, after he'd saved his life from six of Moriarty's henchmen on the train ride of a lifetime, Holmes had promised Watson that if he helped him with this last case then he would never ask for his assistance ever again. Watson kept to his side of the bargain and, so far, Holmes kept to his, and he intended to keep to it in the future.

"Well Mr. Holmes, if I may say so, I am rather concerned since you always seem to take only the most dangerous cases," Mary spoke up.

"You underestimate him darling," said Watson, "It takes a daring man like him to go up against the most dangerous of criminals."

"And the challenge is most exciting," Holmes added, "Though, to my disappointment, none of the cases in the past few months have been nearly as exciting as the one involving Moriarty."

"That's because criminals like Moriarty are one-in-a-million, I'm afraid," said Watson.

Holmes silently agreed by taking another sip of tea.

"Well, perhaps you might want to take a case that's not so life-threatening for once at least?" Mary suggested.

"You're the second person to ask me that," Holmes replied, "Lestrade has all-but begged for my assistance in tracking down that black-cloaked figure who robbed Lords Loxley and Hampton recently."

"Either that or you could take the one involving the missing ballet master," Watson spoke up, "The one who went missing about a week ago."

"Oh I remember reading about that," Mary said.

"Me too," Mrs. Hudson added, "He's a widower they said, and has a daughter, a niece, and a nephew, all not much more than children."

"They must be worried sick, the poor things," Mary sighed sadly.

"But they're still going on with the performance as planned?" Watson asked.

"They are if I recall correctly," Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"Which brings us to another question," Watson said as he turned to Holmes, "You are coming with us tonight are you?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows. Thinking of his significant lack of sleep, and knowing he could probably be out for a considerable number of hours, he asked, "Must I?"

Watson frowned. "I'm afraid I must insist," he replied.

"And why is that?"

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, the only time you really go out is when you have a case. Don't you think it would do you some good to get yourself acquainted with something a bit more refined?"

Whether he liked it or not, Holmes silently admitted that his old colleague did have a point. "Perhaps," was his answer. "And you've been planning this for, how long?"

"About eight weeks, to be exact," Watson replied.

"Oh, well then, I certainly don't want your good intentions to go to waste," said Holmes, "Very well then, I will go. And who knows, maybe I shall get a lead or two on either one of those cases."

Watson in response only gave a bit of a sigh and put his hand in his hand. With the way things were going, Holmes was probably going to be looking about at anything besides what was on stage. Still, he agreed to go. He admitted it was somewhat of a half-victory.

The following night, at about seven-forty-five, the great detective was making last minute adjustments, appearing as respectable as any English gentleman dressed in black from his shoulders to his feet, when he heard a familiar series of knocks at front door. After making sure one last time that they'd be satisfied with his appearance, he hurried down the stairs and quickly answered the door. As expected, in front of him stood Watson in military dress – along with two medallions further indicating his experience as a military man – and beside him, his wife, in a long, dark-green dress and with her red hair swept up.

"On time as expected," Holmes couldn't help but smile, "I congratulate you Watson."

Watson returned the smile. "And I thank you."

"And don't you look lovely tonight, Mrs. Watson."

"Why thank you Mr. Holmes," Mary smiled as well, "And you look about as handsome as John."

"I take that as a compliment," Holmes nodded. "Well, now that we are all smiles, shall we depart?" he then asked.

"Rightly so," Watson agreed, "We don't want to miss the overture."

All three then hurried down the front steps and then stopped at the sidewalk, where Watson immediately called out a cab. Once it halted to a complete stop in front of the flat, Watson gave him the destination and stepped inside with Mary following behind, her hand comfortably in his. When Holmes sat across from them, he closed the door, and soon they were off to the opera house. And it wasn't long before they struck up a conversation.

"Do remind me what is this opera about?" Holmes asked.

"I told you about five times," Watson replied with a bit of annoyance in his voice.

"Well tell me for a sixth," Holmes implored him, "Do tell it's not one of those old comedies where the men and women dress ridiculously and make fools of themselves."

"Oh no, no," Mary replied, "I believe you'll really like this one."

"Quite," Watson agreed, "It comes from a remarkable tale penned down on an interesting piece of papyrus paper which was part of a collection of one Anthony Charles Harris. He of course passed away a couple of decades ago, and the paper is currently held at the British Museum I'm told."

"Yes," Mary nodded, "And the tale itself is about an Egyptian prince who is fated to die either by a crocodile, snake, or dog."

"Lovely," Holmes smirked for a moment, "But you're right. It does seem interesting."

About twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up to the opera house. Though not as grand as perhaps the one Holmes had been to in Paris the year before, it was still somewhat impressive. The building itself was made of marble, and the windows were lit with golden lights coming from the inside. Dozens, if not hundreds, of people were already there. Their cab managed to pull up to the last available spot in front of the house, after which Watson paid, and he stepped out, again holding Mary's hand. Holmes followed them, and they went inside, neither Watson nor Mary very mindful of the way Holmes was taking in every detail.

The inside of the house was even more eye-opening than the outside. In the foyer, the walls seemed to be made of ivory, with gold bordering at the bottom and the top, and a painting of a man lifting up an angelic-looking woman portrayed on the ceiling, which held a grand chandelier. Even the floor, made of dark red carpet, seemed well looked after.

It wasn't as though Holmes had never been in such an environment, he simply didn't come to them very often. The last time he was in an opera house was in the city of Paris the previous year. And it wasn't really to see a performance – though one could say he added to it – but an attempt to stop another one, one that ended up killing, much to his regret.

But soon, he beheld the stage, the border of which was lit up by a series of small torches. The clearly heavy curtains were red and had golden material sewn into them. The house itself seemed about to be filled up. Holmes looked behind for a brief moment to see that the balconies and the boxes were completely filled, with men and women obviously of high society. The men were dressed in a way that made them resemble large black birds, with their double-tailed evening coats and their white gloves, while the women looked as though to be birds of paradise, wearing dresses of fine material and holding their equally as fine fans up.

By a bit of contrast, the floor area was mostly occupied by a mixture of people, with at least half being of the upper middle class like Watson and himself. Only the wealthy could afford to sit in the balcony, and those with the most money took the boxes.

"Holmes," Watson suddenly said. He then looked to see that Watson and Mary were now in their seats, in the third row from the stage.

"Oh, of course," he nodded. He then moved past about four people, then past Mary and Watson, and sat down in the seat next to him. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for his friend to discover the rather concentrated look on his face.

"You seem concerned," Watson spoke up.

"I am," Holmes confirmed.

"About what?" Watson asked.

"I may be willing to take your wife's suggestion," Holmes replied, "regarding the cases involving the black-cloaked thief and the missing ballet master. If I can find any clues to either here tonight, I can assure you they will not escape my notice."

"Or you can simply try to enjoy a simple performance," Watson suggested.

Holmes ignored him, clearly invested in his own investigative world. When it got to be at about eight-thirty, however, the theater was filled with the sound of the orchestra playing the overture, though slightly different from that of a conventional opera, with faint musical sounds of the middle-east heard here and there. Before long, the curtains opened upon a scene of what looked like the great hall in the palace of Pharaoh. Manservants and maidservants adorned the stage, the audience applauded, and the opera began.

The story that followed told of a saddened king, who in all his years had produced no heir. Saddened by this, he consulted his gods, praying that they would grant him a son and heir. Not long after, his beloved queen arrived, and announced that she was pregnant. Eight months later, after the child was born, the Pharaoh hosted a great party to celebrate the birth of his son.

Throughout it all, Holmes took Watson's advice and tried to enjoy the performance, which, admittedly, was interesting. But then, after a messenger announced to Pharaoh the arrival of the Hathors – the seven goddesses who foretell the fate of a newborn – it soon became even more interesting.

Seven dancers in ballet attire made their entrance onto the stage. Instead of tutus they wore free flowing skirts which fell to just below the knees. They were all dressed in the same white costume with bits of gold here and there. They wore the same golden wrist bands, the same short, black wigs with golden adornments, and their faces were all painted black across the eyes, as though they were masks. Holmes could see – despite their faces being painted – that they were most likely between the ages of sixteen and twenty. The only things that were different about them were the gold fringed sashes around their waists, each one a different color than the other.

As was expected, in the scene that followed there was no singing at all, only the seven young women dancing to the music. Though he didn't admit this to Watson, Holmes was somewhat happy that they put in a scene like this. He had learned about this French style of dance years before, though he himself never actually practiced it. He could tell what the moves the dancers did were called, and each of them seemed well-trained, as though they had practiced this since their early days. Clearly, the ballet master had taught them well.

But suddenly, Holmes' eyes caught a rather strange sight, one that seemed to be looking right back at him: the eyes of one of the dancers. For a moment, even from here, he thought he could see her eyes widen a bit the moment she saw him. And then, during almost every move that didn't require her eyes to turn away from his, their gazes stayed on each other, in an almost transfixed-like state.

Feeling the usual urge to tell someone about an intriguing clue to a case – though whether this may or may not be one he currently didn't know – Holmes leaned over to his old colleague.

"Watson," he said softly, "do you notice anything peculiar about one of those dancers?"

"Why do you?"

"Look at that one," Holmes said, "Yes, the one in the middle, wearing the red sash." He pointed her out to him just in case.

"What about her?" Watson asked, confused.

"It may not be so obvious to you," Holmes said, "But I have reason to believe that she is staring at, me."

"What do you…"

"Just watch her for a moment," Holmes interrupted him.

Going against what he believed to be his better judgment, Watson did as he said for the next few seconds, and drew a somewhat unexpected conclusion. "Perhaps she likes you. Though I can't imagine why."

"No, no," Holmes disagreed, "It's not a 'come-away-with-me' stare, but rather an 'I'm-watching-you' stare."

"Whatever you say," Watson couldn't help but sigh, "Just, try to relax and enjoy the rest of the performance."

Holmes rolled his eyes a bit, but when he looked back at the dancer in the red sash, he saw that she wasn't staring at him anymore. Rather, she had gone back to concentrating on her performance, and an intriguing one at that.

As he watched her for the rest of the scene, as she and the others dramatized the foretelling of the prince's fate, Holmes slowly began to realize that this particular dancer wasn't merely acting through her movements, body language, and facial expressions. She was actually letting a genuinely felt sadness fuel her performance. Even from where he sat, Holmes could clearly make out that the sense of grief she wore on her face, as well as her graceful yet wistful air, were sincere. But why?

Suddenly, it dawned on him. Could this be the daughter of the missing ballet master? The idea of his own daughter being one of his dancers herself wasn't that far-fetched. Though, to be fair, he couldn't see her face properly nor had he ever seen what the ballet master looked like. But if his first theory was correct, then she was letting her silent sorrow at her father's disappearance transfer into her stage role of telling the prince's tragic future, like an incarnation of melancholy itself. And, inexplicably, it seemed to make Holmes almost feel something that he very rarely ever felt. Even if it was slight, he felt, touched by this girl's performance.

He became even more invested when, one by one, the dancers fell to the floor, showing that the prince would die. The one wearing the red sash was the last one standing. Holmes watched she swayed back and forth, her hand on her head and her eyes staring up at the ceiling, and he was somewhat impressed. If he hadn't known that she was acting, he probably would have thought that she was really about to faint. His eyes even widened a bit when she finally collapsed and the music stopped. The audience then applauded, as well as Holmes. Though for him, this time it was sincere and not just out of being polite.

The dancers soon departed from the stage, and didn't come back for the rest of the opera, during which Holmes couldn't enjoy himself as much as he'd wished – or as much as he tried to like before. As much as he appreciated Watson's advice, he simply couldn't distance himself from picking up clues and hints of cases. However, this wasn't really so much a failure on his part, it was merely a part of his nature. But what he really thought back to more than anything else was that stare that dancer gave him, so full of mixed emotions, the most prominent one being one of, perhaps, spite.

The only time he did see her again was at the end of the opera, when all the sopranos, altos, tenors, bases, and silent dancers, all came out to take their bows. When the dancers curtsied in front of the applauding audience, Holmes could only focus on the one in the red sash. And then, just as before, their gazes met once more, and, again like before, he could see that sense of defiant spite in her eyes.

The image stayed in his mind even after he, Watson, and Mary had left the building and entered the black of late-winter night before getting another cab.

"That was simply splendid!" Mary smiled once they were all inside, "If only we could go to the opera more often."

"It was a rather well-done performance," Watson agreed, "What have you to say Holmes?"

"What?" Holmes turned to Watson, who realized that he had previously been lost in his own thoughts. "Oh, yes, it was, most wonderful."

The charade wasn't going to fool Watson. "You're still thinking of that alleged stare, I gather?"

"It wasn't alleged," Holmes insisted, "I saw it with my own eyes, and my eyes have never failed me before."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely certain," Holmes replied.

Watson could only briefly close his eyes and sigh in frustration. "Holmes, is that all you have concentrated on ever since you saw it? Is that why you stayed in your seat even during the intermission?"

"Perhaps," Holmes shrugged his shoulders slightly, "Only so I could try to make sense of it."

"Then I suppose your opinion on the opera itself wasn't really honest?"

"Oh it was," Holmes assured him, "It was."

"Well, I'm glad you went with us Mr. Holmes," Mary spoke up.

"I'm more than glad I could come Mrs. Watson," Holmes smiled back at her. He then looked out the cab window and continued to think over what he had seen. Strangely enough, he didn't know exactly what to make of this. If her face wasn't painted, he probably would have deduced more. But from what he had gotten, he had seen a pretty strange sight tonight.

Meanwhile, back at the theater, Esmé and Josette, along with the five other dancers, were in the dressing room. Esmé carefully washed the black paint off her face prior to removing her wig and then unpinning her dark hair, allowing it to fall around her shoulders. She smiled slightly to herself, and then at her cousin, who was also washing off her face paint. Tonight's performance had been a success, but secretly, as much as that made her happy, she was even more happy that it was over.

As she then went to work taking off her red sash, she could only think of the most momentous occasions that had occurred this evening. Not so much the performance, but what happened during it. The one and only Sherlock Holmes had come. She knew it was him. But why did he come? Was he looking for clues on her father's disappearance? Unlikely. Her papa – her dearest papa – had disappeared a week ago, which Esmé could hardly believe. If Mr. Holmes really wanted to solve this case, then surely he'd have come looking for clues long before now.

Still, when their eyes met, something caused Esmé to keep looking at him. In a way, she was sort of silently informing him of her need to have her father back, and that only triggered the memory of the immense emotional distress she'd experienced in the wake of discovering her papa's kidnapping. She'd let it give weight to her performance, which she knew her papa would have wanted to happen.

"Esmé," she suddenly heard Josette say. She quickly turned to her cousin.

"Yes?"

Josette was now brushing her loose hair, and looking at her with considerable concern. "Listen I…" She stopped, almost as if having second thoughts about what she was going to say. But she went on. "Before I say what I wish to, I should say, _merci_, for performing with us, even at this time."

Her expression then turned from concerned to saddened. "Just know that, I miss him too and, I want him back just as much as you do. He has been so much of a papa to me and Victor ever since our own papa died."

"_Merci_ Josette," Esmé nodded. As much as Josette could be bossy, she could also be very sweet and genuine. Though they were cousins, Esmé would always consider Josette her sister.

"Of course," Josette nodded, "Now, onto other serious matters."

"Yes?" Esmé asked again, nodding back.

"Esmé," Josette said, "Victor and I have been talking and, we would appreciate it if you would speak with us tomorrow, for luncheon, about this…"

She looked around, making sure the others weren't looking, before she leaned in toward her and said in a voice that only they would hear, "About this 'plan' of yours."

Esmé paused for a short while. Part of her was somewhat annoyed, since she knew where this was going. Yet she also knew that Josette wasn't merely being bossy again. She could tell that her cousin was genuinely concerned. And what of Victor? Despite his somewhat rude nature he was still rather intelligent for his age. Was he too concerned? Or was he getting involved simply because his sister wanted him to?

Esmé didn't know the answers to any of those questions, but she knew she couldn't hold off opposition for long, and that she was fortunate enough to have friends who cared about her as if she was their own sister.

After thinking it over carefully but quickly, she nodded. _"Très bien." Very well._

Suddenly, a long, drawn-out yawn escaped her lips, letting her remember how tired she really was. Josette, as was expected, quickly noticed.

"Perhaps you should go and rest," she suggested.

"I intend to," Esmé agreed, "This day has carried on for far too long."

Josette smiled. "Then I bid you good night."

Esmé nodded, already feeling the weight of her eyes cave in. _"Bonne nuit." Good night._

They then hugged each other and, in the traditional French style, kissed each other on both cheeks before Esmé left for her quarters upstairs. Only then did she realize how truly weary she was, and how much she was looking forward to simply giving herself up to sleep. Quickly, she changed out of and put away her costume, tights, and slippers, and then slipped into her nightgown. After letting out one final yawn, she crawled into her bed, and closed her eyes, thinking only that even if her cousins were troubled by what was in her mind, she would have to think of a way to get them on her side again.

The last things she remembered before completely falling asleep were two prominent faces: that of her father, whom she loved so dearly and whom she wanted to see well and safe, and, perhaps more ominously, that of the great detective Sherlock Holmes. What circumstances or events brought him here, she was unsure of, but she knew their paths would cross again in the future.

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_Reviews would be appreciated._


	3. One Step Forward, One Step Back

**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Chapter 2 – One Step Forward, One Step Back

The next day, at around just after noon, the city of London carried on as though it was business as usual. The cabs still rolled down the street, the people who traveled on foot could be seen walking about from place to place, and the occasional beggar would every now and then get something to support themselves, whether it be food or money. Though, if some of the English city's citizens were intuitive enough, especially those in the tea shop near the opera house, they would be inclined to believe that there was something suspicious about the three adolescents sitting at one of the far corners, almost as if to keep their conversation private.

That, of course, was their intention. Esmé, Josette, and Victor had earlier that morning agreed to meet here instead of at the house. Even if they met in any one of the more safe areas in the house, it would have been likely that someone would have walked in on them. They did tell Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth where they were going, but fortunately, this wasn't such an unusual request.

But if there was any time and place to have their discussion, this was it. And what they were discussing was most likely illegal.

"So, you both wanted to see me?" Esmé asked.

_"Oui,"_ Victor nodded, "Yes. And we could have met after the show if Josette had allowed me to."

"I told you Victor," Josette reminded him, "she and I were much too tired. And I'm certain you were as well."

"I was not," her brother insisted. But when Josette raised her eyebrows at him, obviously suspicious, he breathed a sigh of slight annoyance. "Maybe just a little. But are we going to speak or not?"

"Yes," Josette replied with her own annoyed tone of voice, "Of course."

"And you said that this is about what I had planned?" Esmé asked.

"Yes," Josette nodded. She then looked at her cousin without any hint of sarcasm and said, "In all honesty Esmé, Victor and I have been thinking that, this may not be the best course of action."

"What part?" Esmé asked, hoping to divert her in any way.

"Every part," Josette replied.

"She does have a point," Victor spoke up, "I mean, you do realize how much trouble you could get into if you were caught."

"Yes," Esmé nodded, "But I can't think of anything else to do."

"You could simply ask for Mr. Holmes' assistance," Josette suggested.

"I'm not so sure," Victor disagreed, "The man is often busy, at least from what I've heard."

"And unless I can get his attention and get him to take me seriously, I doubt he'll ever take this case at all," Esmé spoke up, "And we need him. If Papa is in dangerous hands, then we're going to need the best man to find him and get him back safely."

She then sipped her tea, not wishing to think of her theory about her father being at the mercy of a dangerous man, or men. Suddenly, her mind flashed back to the evening before. The image of his eyes meeting hers was still branded in her memory. "Though why he came last night, I have little to no idea."

"Wait, you saw Sherlock Holmes in the audience?" Victor asked, his voice becoming more eager with every word, "Are you sure it was him? Was he in disguise?"

Esmé couldn't help but chuckle slightly, though she knew Victor would have this reaction. What she didn't tell either of them about was that stare she and the detective shared. "I meant to tell you but, I forgot. Yes, I'm sure it was him. And no, he didn't look like he was in disguise. I may have seen him only a few times, but I never forget a face."

He squinted his eyes at her. "How dare you keep such momentous news from me."

Esmé couldn't help but roll her eyes, but Josette remained serious. "But even if you're right, what was he doing there?"

"That I don't know," Esmé regretfully shook her head, "If he was there to get information regarding Papa's kidnapping, then why didn't he come shortly after it was made public?"

"Well, if he did see you, then I seriously suggest that you reconsider your idea," Josette warned her.

"Forgive me Josette," Esmé said, "but if I recall correctly, we were all wearing face paint. Even if he did know who I was he wouldn't have had an accurate image of me."

Suddenly, Victor let out an exasperated sigh. "You might as well give up sister. She's not going to be talked out of it."

Josette gave her brother a false smile, indicating that she was still going to try, before turning back to Esmé. "Well, perhaps I'd feel a bit better if you reminded me what your plan is, exactly."

"Very well," Esmé agreed. Both Josette and Victor listened as she explained the idea that had been in her head ever since her father vanished.

"If I'm going to attract Mr. Holmes' attention, what better way to do so than to make it look as though I committed a crime?"

"Which isn't technically a crime," Victor added.

"Correct," Esmé nodded, "I'm simply taking back something that was stolen from someone else and returning it to them." As she then continued, she could almost see the whole thing play out in her mind.

"Tonight, after eight o' clock, you're going to help me get into my disguise. Then I shall go to the residence of Lord Wellington, where the woman's necklace most likely is. From what I've seen, not only are Wellington and the landlord friends, but the landlord might be keeping it there to prevent the woman or her husband from taking it back."

"And I remember you saying that you don't exactly intend to keep quiet about it?" Victor asked.

"Precisely," Esmé replied, "I'll be quiet but not too quiet. And when he hears the sounds of an intruder in his home, the first thing he'll do is make sure the necklace is safe. When he comes in and realizes it's gone, I'll come out of my hiding place and then flee. After which he'll most likely follow me, along with the police."

"And how do you intend to get away from them, again?" Josette asked, remembering that she'd been told this before but forgetting this one bit.

"They obviously can't follow me through a maze of buildings in the dark forever," Esmé reminded her, "Either that or I can escape them by going through another house. And once I leave them behind, I'll go to the flat where the man and his wife live and return the necklace. I'll also leave them some money they can use to pay the rent."

"And what was it you were going to do to lead Holmes to the theater?" Josette asked.

"Well, I was intending to leave him a note at the scene," Esmé replied, "asking him to meet me at the theater. But now that he's seen me, and what I wore, that may now be unnecessary."

Seeing then that she was finished with explaining her idea, Josette and Victor only looked at each other before looking back at her.

"We might as well do what we promised we'd do sister," Victor said, "_Oncle_ did teach us never to go back on our word."

"You're right," Josette admitted, "Only…" She trailed off and turned back to Esmé.

"I don't want you to get put in prison, get hurt, or…or worse," she pleaded, "Esmé, you're the closest thing to a sister I ever had. I've lost three, if not four, people in my life, and I have no intention to lose another."

For a few moments, Esmé couldn't find a word to say. She was even reconsidering going through with her plan. What if any of those things did happen to her? There was a possibility of any one of them happening. But she'd prepared, she told herself. She then remembered seeing the couple at the mercy of the landlord, and how angry she felt at seeing such injustice. She could only sigh an unemotional sigh at such conflicted feelings.

"I have thought this through from the beginning," she said, "And something has to be done. I may not get Mr. Holmes to help us by any other way. Besides, even if it's only one couple, even if it's only one difference made, it will be worth it."

This time, it was Josette who made the pause. Esmé could tell how hard she was thinking about this, before she finally nodded. "It's true," she said, "I'm not going to be able to talk you out of this. Very well, I will keep my promise. I will help you."

"And I," Victor nodded, "You may be a woman, but you're a smart woman."

Both Esmé and Josette frowned at him, causing him to raise his eyebrows. "What? I can't joke around without offending someone?"

The way he spoke was so charming, they all couldn't help but chuckle. But that was perhaps the most humor each felt all day.

* * *

_Reviews would be appreciated._


	4. Victorian Vigilante

**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Chapter 3 – Victorian Vigilante

The rest of the day passed almost like a blur for each of them. In many ways, it carried on as though it were any other day, looking past the obvious absence of the ballet master. Josette and Victor were the only ones who knew of Esmé's plan, and thus tried to act as naturally as she did. Still, with every hour that passed, the weight of the knowledge of what was ahead of them grew heavier, until, finally, it was just past eight o' clock.

The three hurried quickly but quietly into the dressing room, Josette and Victor having brought the clothes for Esmé to wear.

_"Merci,"_ she nodded, "Victor, do please turn around."

"I can't," Victor disagreed, "the room is full of mirrors. And I suppose you wouldn't trust me if I simply closed my eyes?"

"Only if I am allowed to make sure you don't do otherwise," Josette said.

Victor rolled his eyes, turned around, and closed his eyes. Josette then went to work helping Esmé change out of her usual clothes into the ones that would help create an entirely new identity for herself, one which she'd been carefully working on for the past several days.

"I should tell you I still don't see the sense of dressing this way," Josette said.

"I must look distinct from any other criminal on the street," Esmé replied, "But come now, we can't waste time with talk."

Josette raised her eyebrows slightly. Even so, she helped her into a red bodice with short, flowing sleeves and a line of jewels descending from the neckline. They'd gotten most of the clothing from the theater itself. The skirt that was originally part of the costume, the girls had removed.

Esmé then pulled on a pair of gloves the same red color as the bodice, and over them, the pair of golden wrist bands she'd worn the previous night. Then came one of the more crucial elements.

"Now for the trousers," Esmé said, "Are you sure they'll fit me Victor?"

"They should," Victor nodded, his eyes still shut, "We are the same height."

"Are you sure you want to wear these at all Esmé?" Josette asked.

"I explained it to you Josette," Esmé replied, "Not only will this help me look distinct, but, admit it, it's so much more practical."

"Well, I am fond of practicality," Josette reluctantly admitted, "It just seems a bit, odd."

Esmé knew how she felt. She too thought it a bit strange, being in man's clothing. Still, the occasion nonetheless called for it, and without thinking about it any longer, she stepped into the trousers, and slipped the straps over her shoulders.

The eyes of both girls widened at the sight before them, though one was more willing than the other to voice her opinion. "Practical, as you said."

Esmé opened her mouth to speak, but let out a sigh instead. She then chose different, more honest words. "It does feel strange, but only a little. And they do seem to fit."

"Can I see?" Victor asked.

Esmé and Josette's eyes widened even more. They then looked at each other for a silent, brief moment, but they both nodded and looked back at him. "Promise you won't laugh?" Esmé asked.

Victor shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe," he replied in a slightly mischievous voice.

Esmé pressed her lips together in frustration, as she wasn't going to allow for any loose ends, especially for tonight. "That was a 'yes' or 'no' question," she said, only realizing after that she sounded a bit like Josette.

"Then yes," Victor said. He then turned around, with his eyes open. And once he saw his cousin in trousers, he crossed his arms and carefully looked her over with examining eyes, up and down, while both Esmé and Josette hoped he'd keep his word.

Victor raised an eyebrow, and then a slight smirk made its way across his face. "I knew they would fit," he said, "Not perfectly but, more than well enough."

Both girls exchanged looks for a second time, each rather confused at first, but they decided to take his words as a sign of approval. "Then on with the rest," Esmé said. And she and Josette went back to getting her ready, moving a bit faster than before.

Victor gave her a red vest to match her bodice and gloves, while Josette tied the red sash that she'd had on last night around her waist. Esmé then received from Victor a pair of tall boots and a belt with a leather bag attached to it.

"Is the money inside?" she asked.

_"Oui,"_ he nodded, "I put it inside earlier."

Esmé nodded back. She then turned back to her other cousin, who now held a brush, and a red, golden-fringed ribbon in her hand. Esmé nodded at her, and turned her back to her. Josette then brushed her hair up into a high ponytail, and then tied the ribbon to hold it into a bow. Once her hands left her head, Esmé turned back around, and asked in a slightly nervous voice, "Do you have the mask?"

Without a word, Josette nodded, and quickly produced the most crucial part of Esmé's new outfit, the part that would keep her identity hidden, at least for the time being. Esmé took it, and then, in a mixture of anticipation and anxiety, donned the mask. It was red with an embroidered pattern all across it, and a translucent scarf of the same color hung from it to below her chin.

Finally, after taking a moment to breathe, she walked over to the nearest mirror to see the result. What she saw, whatever she'd previously expected, made her eyes widen. She had completely transformed from a ballet dancer, and into perhaps the most unusual looking thief she'd ever seen, with her trousers mixed with her sash, and her bodice mixed with her vest. Indeed, one probably would have thought she'd come from a circus.

But that was the point, to attract attention to herself. Though if she were honest, she'd also chosen this particular style of dress to reflect who she was. With her sash, her jeweled bodice, and her wrist bands, she looked somewhat like a gypsy. Not really to perpetuate the commonly held idea of gypsies as thieves, but her own mother had been a gypsy before she married her father. Even now, five years after her death – a timespan that sometimes felt like an eternity but at other times felt like it had happened only yesterday – Esmé wished to honor her memory.

Suddenly, thinking of her maman made her pity her cousins. They barely knew their own mother, as they were but small children when she died. And then their papa was taken from them by that murderer, whoever he was. Suddenly, Esmé felt a new determination. She wasn't just going to help bring her papa back for herself, she was going to do it for Josette and Victor too.

Still, she wished to have their opinion before she left. She turned toward her cousins and asked, without hesitation, "How do I look?"

Both took a while before giving a reply. Josette shrugged her shoulders slightly. "Well, you look conspicuous, as you wished."

Victor gave a bigger smirk than before and nodded. "Definitely like a feminine version of Robin Hood."

Despite the seriousness of the present situation, Esmé couldn't help but chuckle. When she first explained her idea last week, she and Victor got the idea to use codenames for her, him, Josette, and even Mr. Holmes. Since one of their favorite books was _The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood _by Howard Pyle, and since Esmé was donning a similar identity, the idea stuck. She was Robin Hood, Victor was Will Scarlet, Josette was Alan-a-Dale, and Mr. Holmes, to their own amusement, was the Sheriff of Nottingham.

But the amusement quickly faded, as did Victor's smile. He looked at Esmé with an expression devoid of his usual humor.

"I take it back," he said, "Esmé, you don't have to do this."

Esmé was immediately confused.

"Now _you're_ trying to talk me out of it?"

"Yes," Victor nodded, "I admit it. I am." He then let out a heavy sigh before looking back at her, sincere concern on his face. "Esmé, I may be the youngest of all of us but, you know _Oncle_ would want me to protect you and Josette right?"

_"Oui,"_ Esmé nodded back.

"Look," Victor went on, "I know I said before that you thought this through but…I just hope you're aware of the danger of it."

"I am," Esmé assured him. She then looked at Josette, who looked back at her with a concerned face for a but a moment before sighing and looking away. While the caused Esmé's heart to soften, it also caused her to press her lips together in slight frustration.

"I've prepared for this," she then said, "And I promise you both that nothing is going to happen to me. If this is the only way to lead Mr. Holmes to me so I can ask for his help, I must take it."

For a brief moment, Esmé could almost see a hint of admiration in her cousin's eyes, and the sight inspired her. Victor may have been in some ways like any other little brother, but he still loved her as a brother would a sister.

"You're that determined are you?" he asked.

"Yes," Esmé replied.

"Then, I hope you'll remember what I taught you," he said.

"I will. I've been practicing when I could." During her week of preparation, Esmé, having realized she'd need a bit of fighting experience, convinced Victor to teach her as much as he could in the time allowed. He himself had learned it from two of his friends, the sons of one of the stagehands. And while Esmé wasn't a master by any means, she'd treated it just as she treated dance, dedicating herself to learning as much as she could.

"Oh, I almost forgot." Victor then reached into his pocket and pulled out a smaller belt with a hilt, and a knife.

"Oh good," Esmé nodded, _"Merci."_

After strapping it around her right leg though, Josette spoke up. "Esmé, promise me you'll use that only when it's absolutely necessary."

"Of course," said Esmé, taking her motherly words to heart. She had no intention to use it on Mr. Holmes, or even Wellington, but the most dangerous criminals were out at night, and she needed to take every precaution.

Now, after checking for one last time if she needed anything else, she concluded that she did have everything, and realized, with a mixture of ambition and reluctance, that it was time.

"Well, I'd best be off," she said, "The night isn't getting any younger."

Both her cousins nodded, and then, choosing to embrace each other all at once, Esmé, Josette, and Victor held each other in a group hug.

"Good luck Esmé," Josette said softly.

"And don't do anything stupid," Victor said, trying even now to lighten the situation.

Strangely enough, it worked. Esmé managed a smile at both him and Josette before letting it turn back into a frown again.

"I shall return as soon as possible," she said, "I promise."

The two nodded. Then without another word, Esmé turned around and took up one last thing: a black cloak with a hood to obscure her in the nighttime darkness. After putting it on, she bid her cousins goodbye, and then left the room.

Once she left, both Victor and Josette could only wonder whether they did the right thing in letting her go, when suddenly, Victor remembered something of critical importance, something he wasn't sure Esmé knew of.

"Josette, wait here," he said. Before she could think to stop him, he walked hastily out of the room, through the theater, and then to the door that led outside, hoping he would find Esmé and stop her from making a big mistake.

"Esmé!" he exclaimed after opening the door. But she wasn't there. Victor hurried out of the shadows for one last effort, but still, he couldn't find her. He looked left to right, again and again, but his efforts proved to be in vain. He pressed his lips together, and felt like he wanted to hit something. But he decided to do so in a more appropriate place. For now, all he could do was go back to be with his sister and hope for the best.

Meanwhile, Esmé was making her descent into the depths of England's capitol. Only less than a few times had she ever traveled through this city after dark, and while it did scare her to some extent, she felt confident at remembering that she'd planned for this. Even at this hour, with the black sky above her, the still rather cold weather, and only the gas lamps and occasional window or two for light, she saw the familiarity of every place she'd encountered.

Taking a daring decision, Esmé maneuvered through as many alleyways as possible and crossed as little roads as possible. She wanted to do all she could to keep anyone from seeing her, even if she was wearing a mask and a cloak, for she did not want anyone tracking her down to the theater before it was warranted.

Being cautious though, she looked briefly for any possible threats before running through an alley, ready to whip out her knife at even the slightest sound or ominous sight. Still, while she was very aware of the dangers of being a young girl traveling through such a large city at this time of night, in a way, she thought it sort of fun. She'd always been a bit of a risk-taker.

For as long as she could allow, she let herself recall a warm, summer day, when she was nine years old and still living in Paris. Esmé, her parents, and her cousins were taking a walk. And once they got to a bridge overlooking the Seine River (instead of the Thames), she decided it would be fun to walk on the marble railing. Needless to say, she'd scared the wits out of both her parents, and while she did apologize and said she'd never do it again, even now she looked back on it with humor.

But her humor was swiftly swept aside. She was getting closer, and she preferred to keep out of danger for the rest of the journey. Even so, she still tried to make some light of the situation. Tonight, she was Robin Hood, helping those who couldn't help themselves. Though instead of wearing brown or green, she wore mostly red. Instead of traversing through the trees of Sherwood Forest, she was traversing through the alleyways and streets of the forest-like city of London. And instead of combatting the Sheriff of Nottingham, she, in a way, would combat Sherlock Holmes, the greatest mind in Europe.

Finally, after what seemed like a thousand lifetimes spent in the dark, Esmé came upon the house of Lord Richard Wellington. As she expected, it was grand, big, and just the sort of house for a man like him.

_The palace of Prince John_, she thought. Ironic, she noted, that his first name was Richard, the name of the king whom Robin Hood was loyal to. She'd succeeded in Part One of her mission, now onto Part Two.

But before she proceeded, she took a moment to thank her papa, wherever he was, for being who he was. Thanked him for being a learned man, for teaching her and her cousins not only languages and other subjects, but also about character and standing for what is right, among other things. Thanked him for helping her discover her love of dance, and helping her grow in it. And most of all, she thanked him for simply being the best father in the world, never knowing how she could possibly repay him for everything he had done for her, before and after her mother died.

After one last deep breath, and a silent request for strength, Esmé ventured across the street, and into the shadows on the side of the house.

Once she was at the back, and away from the vision of any possible witnesses, she took out her knife, and used it to unlock the back door. Josette did tell her to use it only when it was necessary, and now was definitely one of those times. As soon as the lock gave way, she slowly and quietly made her way inside the pitch black of the building. The only light she could see came from the outside behind her, and the faint, but still prominent one through the cracks of the door above her. Without thinking twice, she closed the door, locked it again, and ascended the stairway that led her to it.

For a moment, the inside of the house seemed rather smaller than on the outside, but maybe that was because of a lack of light. Either way, Esmé closed the door, and walked down the dimly lit hallway quietly. Only when she found the right room would she make noise. For a brief few moments, she beheld the grand foyer, with its sweeping ivory staircase, pale, green walls holding portraits of male and female family members, and its chandelier hanging from the ceiling, before reminding herself that she was still on a mission.

She did hear that Wellington was an admirer of jewels, and that he had an entire room dedicated to them. But where was it? Was it on the first floor, the second, which she was on, or the third? Deciding that there was no time to waste, Esmé began her search. She first went to the nearest door, but found that it was a small library, with no jewels in sight. The next room on the second floor was a fine parlor, but still, she didn't see the pearls. Perhaps she needed to go to the third floor.

After climbing up the next set of stairs, she saw three more doors, and another hallway with a far end at the right. There, she saw what looked like another, fourth door. Likely the room where the jewels were contained. If Wellington did have a room simply for displaying his jewels, he probably would have chosen a less obvious place. Deciding to take the chance, Esmé made her way quietly down the hall, only to find that this door was locked too. She couldn't help but smirk, knowing that such a simple device as a knife could be as effective as a key.

She then opened the now unlocked door, and her eyes immediately widened. What she had heard was true. Though the room was smaller than the library or the parlor, there were still dozens of jewels on display, mostly kept on shelves on either wall behind glass. She slowly walked in, her gaze locked on one set of jewels, then the next. There were rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds. She'd never seen such a collection all in one place. But still, she didn't find any pearls.

For a moment, Esmé wondered if her plan had been fatally flawed, that all of this might have been for naught. But she wasn't going to give up that easily. She slowly scanned the room one more time with both her eyes, wide open, from bottom to top, and then top to bottom. That was when her eyes noticed a small box on top of one of the shelves. Could it be? She had to take the chance.

Standing on the edge of her toes, she reached for the box on the very back of the shelf, and pressed her lips together in anxious anticipation before opening it. What she saw made her heart leap in victory. The pearls! She'd found them! Wasting no time, she quickly took them and placed them inside the leather bag attached to her belt before stepping off the chair and putting it back where she found it.

Now the moment had come. Now she had to draw attention to herself.

Esmé wondered how she going to do it, when she saw the open door, and got an idea. After securing her bag for one last time, she simply walked over to the door, and took a deep breath – preparing for anything – before slamming the door shut.

At first, she was somewhat startled, as it sounded louder than she expected. But suddenly, downstairs in the foyer, she heard an enraged masculine voice. "You blundering idiot!"

Though she'd never exactly heard him shout before, Esmé recognized that voice immediately. It was Lord Wellington. And apparently he'd gone out somewhere and come back, with someone. But before she made another move, she decided to unlock the door, open it slightly, and listen for anything else he might say.

"What did I do?" another masculine voice asked. Esmé recognized that one too, but less quickly. It was likely the landlord who took the pearls.

"Don't be daft!" Wellington replied angrily, "You know very well what you did back there!"

"Well I did a lot of things at the club," the landlord said, "It would help if you would remind me which one."

"Follow me," Wellington said, with a hint of annoyance in his still angry voice.

Esmé, her heart now racing, quickly closed the door again and locked it, only to realize she hadn't really thought of a hiding place. Still, she searched as fast as she could for one. Behind one of the shelves? No. Too obvious and not enough space. Underneath the gilt sofa near the door? No. She might sneeze. Then, she looked up, and noticed that the ceiling had wooden rafters, likely low enough for her to jump up and grab onto and spacious enough for her to hide between. Taking the chance – and knowing she'd probably ruin it with her dirty boots, but not caring – she stepped onto the sofa, then on top of one of the arms. Giving her best possible effort, she jumped as high as she could, arms stretched out, and caught the wooden beam.

After quickly shifting herself to the right, and hearing the footsteps get closer, Esmé used all her strength and hoisted herself as fast as she could onto the rafter, the back of her head touching the slanted ceiling even as she crouched on it. With her left hand holding her gathered cloak and her right holding onto the vertical beam next to her, she grit her teeth and closed her eyes before she heard the door unlock and open.

Wellington locked the door again, turned on a small lamp, and then he and the other man – whom Esmé now recognized as the landlord – stood directly below her. She forced herself to hold her breath and her heart to slow down as she heard their conversation carry on underneath her.

"I don't know how we ever became friends in the first place Felix!" Wellington said, more quietly this time.

"Because we studied at university together?" the landlord – Felix – asked.

"It astounds me how a man who studied at university, who can be remarkably smart, can also do the most dim-witted thing I've ever seen!"

"And what was that?" Felix asked.

"'Oh, are you talking about that jewel thief?'" Wellington sounded like he was quoting Felix. "'I may have a lead or two on him.' Does that jog your memory?!"

"I was only joking."

"That doesn't matter! Even joking around can lead the police not just to you but to me as well! I've gone to great risks to get those jewels from Loxley and Hampton!"

Suddenly, Esmé found herself listening more and more closely. Felix sounded remarkably less threatening here than before. In fact, she almost felt sorry for him.

"And I believe I've been very generous. I pay you with more money than I pay my own staff. I even allow you to keep those pearls in here."

So the pearls were the woman's. Esmé did have the floating theory that they weren't the woman's after all, but Wellington had obviously confirmed otherwise. She listened more.

"Yet you can't do so much as keep your mouth shut! It's not a hard thing to do! I'm not going to allow for any loose ends, especially considering the party I'm having in three days, because if my reputation is forever ruined, _you_ will pay the price!"

Felix stayed silent, and Esmé was contemplating how she was going to escape, when Wellington brought up something else.

"And I will most _certainly_ not leave any loose ends regarding that other secret I'm so desperately trying to keep!"

Esmé then for a brief second felt a conflict between her heart and her mind. On the one hand her heart wanted to know what he was talking about, and whether it could have anything to do with her father. But on the other hand, her mind wanted to use this as an opportunity to go through with the rest of her plan. In a split-second decision, she chose to go with what her mind wanted, and spoke out in French.

_"That secret of yours, let me hear it!"_

"What was that?!" Wellington asked as he turned around.

Felix shook his head silently, giving Esmé time to speak again.

_"If your secret is so desperate, let us hear it!"_

"Who's there?!" Wellington called out.

Knowing that there was no turning back now, Esmé jumped down from her hiding place, and stood straight in front of the startled Wellington, hoping her eyes behind her mask were intimidating him.

"Wha-, who are you?!" he demanded.

Esmé quickly pulled back her hood and put her hands on her hips, letting him get a good picture of her before telling him in a proud, and a bit defiant, voice, _"I am the Masked Gypsy. She who serves the oppressed!"_

Once he looked back and saw the open box, it didn't take long for Wellington to realize what she'd done. "She has the pearls! Grab her!"

Esmé spun around to see Felix charging at her. But then, deciding to finally put her training to good use, in mere seconds she grabbed him by the coat collar, turned around, and hurled him across the room, where he landed on the floor and against the sofa. Before Wellington could think to do the same, Esmé dashed past him, unlocked the door, and then rushed out the door, leaving Wellington to wonder what just happened, but also with a need to stop her.

"What are you waiting for?!" he asked Felix, "Follow me!"

As he rushed down the hallway after her, Felix got up and did as he said, catching up with Wellington to join the chase.

Esmé managed to stay at least five feet ahead of them as she ran down the hallway, down the two sets of stairs, and then out the front door, as she'd planned. And as she also expected, Wellington shouted in the cold night air behind her, "Thief! Stop her!"

Instead of going through the alleyways like before, she ran down the open streets, her arms behind her to get maximum speed as well as the least physical demands. Part Two of her plan had worked, and now Part Three was ahead of her as she sped past the people still outside at this hour, with Wellington and Felix behind her shouting, "Stop that girl!"

On one particular street corner stood Inspector Lestrade and four policemen, all engaged in a rather lively debate.

"The key thing that is most important, gentlemen," Lestrade said, "is that you must always be aware and ready. You must always be prepared for any…"

Suddenly, before he could finish, a blur of black and red roughly pushed aside two of the policemen as though they were a pair of doors, and ran between them before any of them could react. They then heard a pair of running footsteps behind them, and a commanding voice shouting, "Stop her! She has my jewels!"

"Lord Wellington!" exclaimed Lestrade as he recognized the rough-looking and clearly desperate man.

"She just took my pearls!" he shouted as he came to a stop in front of him, Felix beside him, "She may be that thief who robbed Loxley and Hampton!"

"Are you sure?!" one of the policemen asked.

"Come now men!" Lestrade ordered the four. They quickly responded, and the seven men continued together down the road after their new suspect, not all of them really knowing what was going on but equally determined to get some answers.

Esmé was now running even faster than before – despite her slowly tiring state – with the police now after her. Although, her running past the policemen as she did was intentional. She needed to draw attention, but not too much attention. She would let them chase her for a while, but then she'd have to find a way to get them off her trail. Esmé could only hope she'd hold out until then.

After a short while, she realized that now was the time to try to get them to stop following her. She was beginning to see less familiar roads, and she wasn't about to lose her way. Using her blessed gift of sight, she looked around as she ran for any possible distraction. Her chance came when she saw a row of what looked like small, wooden buckets of water. She swiftly picked one up, turned around, and tossed the water, sending it splashing to the ground. While at least three of the men then slipped and fell onto the cold, hard pavement, Esmé took off once more, trying to think of a more permanent way to stop them.

At one point – after hearing the whistle for at least the twelfth time, and hearing Wellington shout, "Stop thief!" – Esmé suddenly came up with another idea to slow them down, after realizing only now that something was slowing her down. While it may have helped her before, she saw relatively little use for it now.

_Time to abandon this cloak_, she thought as she pulled at the strings at the base of the hood, desperately trying to get it off.

Meanwhile, at a nearby street corner, the great detective was walking out of one of the city's finer establishments, a smoking pipe in his hand, with a finer dressed man with a look of gratitude on his face at his side. After stopping under one of the gas lamps, and taking pity on the man with a broken-down cart on the road in front of them, the two turned to each other for the last time before they planned to part ways.

"I thank you Mr. Holmes," the man said as he extended his hand, "I really appreciate your commitment to this case."

Holmes gave a ghost of smile as he took the man's hand and shook it. "I do what I can my lord. Rest assured, I intend find your jewels and get them back to you as soon as I am able, I promise you."

The man nodded, but suddenly the cool of the night was pierced by the sharp, shrill sound of a police whistle, once, then twice, followed by the shout of "Stop thief!" Both the man and Holmes instantly turned toward the sound, and beheld Lestrade, four policemen, and two other men in pursuit of an even stranger sight. From what Holmes could see in the next few seconds, this wasn't an average thief. In fact, this may have been the most unusual looking one he'd ever seen. A female she was, but wearing trousers and boots. He also caught a glimpse of gold fringe around her waist and gold metal around her wrists. Her dark hair was pulled back, but her face was hidden by a red mask. Even though Holmes had seen a lot of oddities in his career, this was a most bizarre spectacle, even for him.

But he continued to watch. The woman untied the strings of her cloak, turned around, and threw it at the men chasing her. Oddly enough, she succeeded. One policeman managed to trip over the cloak while two more tripped over him. Holmes didn't waste time to roll his eyes at them, as they were focused on the escaping thief.

Though the next few seconds passed quickly, for both the detective and the thief, it seemed as though time slowed down.

For Esmé, it happened once she saw a pair of scrutinizing eyes at the corner of her eye, one that made her head turn, and see none other than Mr. Holmes on the street beside her. For perhaps only a single second, their gazes were locked on the other just as they had been the night before. His wide-eyed stare was a near hypnotizing one that almost made her freeze in her tracks, but a quick remembrance of her mission pulled her back into reality at the last possible instant.

For Holmes, while time did seem to slow once his eyes met those of the thief, it slowed even more when she looked back at the path in front of her, and she noticed the broken cart in her way. The man beside it immediately darted out of the way, while the masked woman did something that took longer than usual for Holmes to believe. In the style and quick thinking of an athlete, she raised her arms above her, and leaped over the cart, one leg behind her and the other in front.

Time only got back to its normal speed once she landed and then took a diving roll underneath a passing cab, making it only just. Once she disappeared, Holmes turned his vision back to the men who'd been chasing her. The scene became even more out of control as two of the policemen ran into one of the horses, causing the cab to stop, the horse to become agitated, and a lot of shouting to ensue.

"What on earth was that?!" the man beside Holmes asked in great alarm.

"Excuse me my lord," he nodded at him. In an attempt to lessen the chaos in any way he could, he rushed over to the cab, and joined the two policemen in calming the large black horse down before it could trample anyone. Fortunately, by then, with some urging by two of the policemen, the shouting died down somewhat, giving Holmes a chance to speak to Lestrade and get some answers regarding the most bizarre of scenes that just took place.

"Lestrade," he greeted him, "my good man. It's been a rather long time since I last saw you in an active pursuit."

"And it's been a rather long time since I haven't seen you in one," Lestrade retorted, "But now isn't the time to poke fun. That thieving girl could be anywhere in the city by now."

"And with my jewels!" a lone voice suddenly shouted above them. Holmes turned to see that it was Lord Richard Wellington, looking a bit disheveled, and understandably so considering his previous claim.

"Just, give me a moment my lord," Holmes said to him as he held up his hand, "and I'll speak with you as soon as I can."

He then turned back to Lestrade and their conversation continued.

"How long have you been chasing her?" Holmes asked.

"For at least ten minutes," Lestrade replied, "And I know this may seem unexpected, and even questionable, but we have reason to believe that she may have been the jewel thief we've been looking for."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. A simple girl like her, a well-class jewel thief? Lestrade, for all his bumbling, was right. It was highly questionable. But then again, not all of his opponents – in fact, one could say the majority – weren't all what they seemed, and that taught him to consider all possibilities, no matter how unusual.

"What is your evidence?" he asked.

"Well, if you didn't see it just now, she was wearing a black cloak. And Lord Wellington claims that she has stolen jewels from him. Two key clues to our search. If only we hadn't lost her."

"Intriguing," Holmes replied, both out of sarcasm and being genuinely interested. He then voiced the radical idea that came to his mind. "Lestrade, with your permission, I'd like to investigate this case myself."

Lestrade immediately raised his eyebrows. "Well Holmes, not to demean your excellent abilities, but with _your_ permission, I'd like for you to let us handle this. All we need to do is find her and bring her in."

"Well unlike you I prefer to bring in criminals only when they've been convicted by definite proof," Holmes declared before saying his last words to the inspector, "And I intend to gather all the proof I can."

Later, at an otherwise unimportant flat in the middle of London, the housekeeper of that flat had just dressed for bed. It had been a long, weary day, and she was looking forward to the comfort of rest, when all of a sudden, she heard a knock on her door. Wondering what either of the boarders could possibly want at this hour, she walked toward the door, and opened it to see a most bizarre looking figure.

Understandably, she let out a gasp of fright, but the oddly dressed girl put her finger to her lips and said "shh" as she quietly closed the door behind her. The woman backed away, but the girl spoke softly to her.

_"Madame,"_ she said in English, "you have no cause for alarm. I am neither a thief nor a murderer, but I am serious about what I do."

The woman took a moment before she spoke. "And, what is it you do, may I ask?"

"I'm afraid I haven't the time to explain," the girl replied, "But I want you to do something for me." She then reached into the leather bag on her hip, and pulled out something that caused the woman's eyes to widen with surprise: a string of pearls, and then, a fold of money.

"I want you to find the man who previously lived here with his wife and young son, and return this necklace to them. The money is compensation for the stolen rent money. Please, tell them to keep both in a safe place, and to watch for any sign of danger. Can you do that for me?"

The woman nodded, but just barely. "I suppose so."

The girl nodded back, giving only the slightest hint of a smile, before she returned to the seriousness of the situation. "Thank you. I must be off now. The hour grows late."

She then turned around and walked back across the room, but just as she touched the door knob, the woman stopped her. "Wait. What should I tell them when they ask who gave these to me?"

The girl turned around to look at her one last time, a genuine smile on her face. "Tell them, a friend, gave them to you," she replied. But her smile turned back into a frown again as she turned once more. "I do have one more favor to ask of you."

"Yes?"

"Neither you, nor the man's family, are to speak of me. This conversation never happened."

The woman, who was still alarmed but less so than before, nodded again. "Very well. I shall tell them what you told me. And thank you."

"You're more than welcome, as are they," the girl said. With that, before another word could be spoken from either of them, she opened the door quietly, and disappeared as quickly as she'd come, leaving the housekeeper alone in her room again.

Outside, in the cold, dark winter night which remained largely unchanged from earlier, two figures – determined but still rather tired – made their way through the city back to their homes, quietly and undetected, like shadows. One being a girl of seventeen while the other was a grown man. Though the two had many a difference, they shared one large thing in common: the ambition to come across the other again, and soon.

* * *

_Reviews would be appreciated._


	5. Pieces Along the Way

**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Chapter 4 – Pieces Along the Way

The following morning, it was business as usual for most of London. The cabs still rolled down the street – even the one that had gotten a rude stop – the citizens on foot walked this way and that, and the early spring sun was still hidden by the barrier of the gray, winter clouds. But what none of the three were mindful of was the lone man bundled up against the still remarkably cold weather. He may have looked like an everyday man of the upper middle class, but what everyone who passed him missed was the intent expression on his face, the one he usually wore when he was invested in a case.

He walked up the front steps of a house in the middle of the street – more specifically the office of one Dr. John Watson – and knocked on the door. After waiting impatiently for five seconds too many, he strode through the unlocked door and walked onto the scene of Watson speaking with a man and a woman, both finely dressed – a married couple he could tell by the woman's wedding ring.

Though Watson saw him, he didn't immediately address him. Instead, he turned his attention back to the man and woman and promptly finished his conversation with them.

"Just do as I told you to do," he said, "and everything will be fine."

"Of course doctor," the man said, "Thank you."

Watson nodded. "I'm glad I could help."

"Good day," the man nodded back. He then took his wife by the hand and escorted her out of the doctor's office, neither of them noticing the otherwise famous man standing in the foyer. Holmes didn't mind though, since he preferred to keep a low profile. But once the couple left, he turned his focus back to his old friend.

"Watson," he greeted him.

"Holmes," he interrupted him, as he slowly walked into the room, "what gives you the right to simply waltz into my home unannounced?"

"I knocked on the door," Holmes replied, wanting to chastise him for not answering but pardoning him since he had the reasonable excuse of having a conversation.

"And you could have waited for me to answer."

"That was my mistake," Holmes admitted, "But I thought, since we are still friends, that I may be allowed to enter if I wish."

"Then where was I when the message regarding permission no longer being was released?" Watson asked in an obviously sarcastic manner.

Though Holmes allowed himself to briefly let out a slight chuckle, he then let out a sigh devoid of any humor, as this case, while highly strange, required his utmost concentration if he wished to solve it. "Forgive me Watson," he said, "but I did not come here to idly chat."

"Clearly," Watson nodded, "You don't seem to be injured or ill, though you do look like you've barely slept."

"I have," Holmes replied, "barely slept, that is. And before you ask, I did not come here to ask for your involvement in my current case."

"Then why are you here?" Watson asked.

"Witnesses, my dear fellow," Holmes replied, "I'm looking for witnesses."

"To what?"

"Let me ask," Holmes said, "Did either you or Mary see anything strange between the hours of eight and ten o' clock last night?"

"No," Watson replied, "But we did read about something strange in this morning's paper." By now, Watson had picked up a newspaper he had left on the floor earlier. Holmes could see that it was an edition of the "Police Gazette", and he let out a sigh at the notion that Lestrade wasn't going to leave this case to him. When would the man learn? Watson then set it down on his desk in front of Holmes, letting him read the frontline, which was printed in bold black letters.

**_"Masked Girl robs Lord Wellington"_**

"A young female thief in dress worthy of a fashion statement," Watson said, "who speaks only in French, and even has a name for herself: the Masked Gypsy. Is that what you're asking about?"

"Precisely," Holmes replied.

Watson couldn't help but smirk. "Tell me," he then said, "why is it that the only women who interest you are thieves?"

Though Holmes rolled his eyes slightly, he did feel a tinge of sadness at his remark, a type of sadness that he had almost – but not completely – forgotten. Still, he couldn't allow himself to think about what caused it. He couldn't allow himself to lose focus. "What I am interested in," he said, "is the mere complexity of it all."

"Elaborate," Watson requested.

"Of course," Holmes nodded. As he then retraced the steps he took the day before, it was almost like he was seeing them with his eyes as well as his mind – kind of like a magic lantern show made up of moving mental photographs – which often happened and was usually a great help in solving his cases.

"Just the day before, I spoke to Lord Hampton and then Loxley, personally inquiring them of what they knew regarding the black-cloaked person who stole from them, only to then see two remarkable sights. One being seven men pursuing the masked thief, and the other being Lestrade having joined the pursuit."

Watson chuckled slightly at hearing what the second sight was, but he continued to listen to Holmes.

"After then witnessing her escape, I assisted in quelling the resulting commotion before speaking to Lestrade. He believed her to be the thief who stole from Hampton and Loxley, his evidence being that she wore a black cloak and that she'd stolen jewels from Lord Wellington, which the black-cloaked thief stole from the two aforementioned lords."

By now, Watson was becoming genuinely interested. Holmes may have been right about it being complicated after all.

"When I saw that Wellington himself was one of the men who'd been chasing her, I decided to inquire him of what he'd seen. From him I'd learned of what you just told me: that she dressed most unusually – which I myself had the pleasure of seeing, that she spoke only in French, and that she called herself the Masked Gypsy."

"And what have you concluded from all of this?" Watson asked.

Holmes immediately let out an aggravated, frustrated sigh. "In all honesty," he replied, "what information I have gathered raises more questions than answers. For example, if she and the other are one and the same, why wait more than a week before committing a third heist?"

"Perhaps they are a team?" Watson suggested, "And both desire revenge against these lords?"

"That is only one possibility among several," Holmes sighed, "Furthermore, the first thief was careful to keep their cloak on and did not speak at all. She, however, took her cloak off and threw it at Lestrade and the others to get them to stop chasing her, and she spoke with bold defiance, as Wellington said."

"Do you have any clue at all as to who she might be?" Watson asked.

"I do have one," Holmes replied. Again, he remembered the scene as though a mental camera in his head had gotten a photograph of it. "While I saw her fleeing, there was a broken cart in front of her. But instead of running around it, she jumped over it as though it would be natural for her to do so. Clearly an indication of a physically trained individual."

"Who knows then?" Watson asked, "Perhaps she's that dancer you said stared at you. Maybe my theory that she likes you is right after all."

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, to wonder how absurd that could be when, suddenly, it didn't seem so absurd at all. In fact, it seemed rather likely that Watson was right. He recalled the style in which she jumped over the cart, with one leg in front of her and the other behind, almost like, a ballet dancer would do. While most would dismiss such things, it fit perfectly with Holmes' philosophy that the smallest details were the most important. And there was a chance that small detail could in fact lead him straight to the identity of this most unusual of thieves.

"Watson," he then said, "I fear you may have done something dangerous."

Watson raised his eyebrows, wanting to know what he was talking about. "What?"

"You, my good man, have given me an idea," Holmes replied.

Watson looked confused. "I have?"

"Yes. If that young woman, as a trained dancer, could perform as well as she did, who's to say she would not be able to leap over a cart?"

"Is this going to be a continuing cycle with you?" Watson asked.

This time, it was Holmes who looked confused.

"First you promise to never again ask for my assistance," Watson explained, "Yet, as of late, you've been tending to get me involved in some way or another."

"And I intend to keep my word," Holmes insisted, "But even you should admit that it's helpful to get some assistance from an old friend every now and then."

Though Watson didn't want to admit it, he knew Holmes had a point. While he did enjoy his new, comfortable married life, the old soldier in him remained there, and perhaps always would. But pushing that aside for a better time, he asked Holmes, "What do you plan to do?"

"I plan to solve this case like I do any other," Holmes replied, "This girl could be a very crafty one for all I know, but she can't run from the law forever."

"Especially not it's champion," Watson added.

"Right," Holmes agreed. He then made sure his coat was firmly in place, and wrapped his scarf around his neck, as he was planning to depart, and feeling a certain excitement.

"I best be on my way," he said, "I bid you good day Watson, and I thank you for your assistance."

"I'm glad I could help," Watson nodded. He then watched as Holmes headed back through the foyer towards the door and then left, leaving him to wonder what his efforts and clues could possibly lead to.

Meanwhile, in another part of London, specifically the opera house, a young woman was sitting in front of the vanity mirror in her room. It ten-thirty in the morning, and she had only recently woken up. She'd just finished washing her face and was now brushing her hair, thinking only of what had occurred the night before.

Esmé didn't quite know how she'd managed to do what she'd set out to do. While she had thought it through, even she had her doubts that it would work. Yet it did, somehow, someway. She didn't concentrate on it for long though. All that mattered was that it worked.

Instead, she focused her concentration on the good things that came of her nighttime escapade. The man and his family probably had the necklace and compensation money by now, and – as noted by the smirk she'd given at seeing her closet where she stored them in her mirror – she had the experience of wearing trousers. After she'd come home last night, she almost didn't want to take them off. Not that she didn't like dresses, but when she wore these, she felt much less confined. She was glad that she grew up not being forced to wear the attire that one would barely be able to breathe in, much less move in. No, she was a dancer, and dancers need to be able to breathe and move.

Inevitably though, it wasn't long before her memory recalled the more unsettling results of her actions. Not only was she sure that Scotland Yard now had a file on her, but she'd managed to get the direct attention of Mr. Holmes himself. What he was doing in that part of London, she didn't know. What she did know was that she'd left him a pretty obvious clue through the way she'd jumped over that broken-down cart. And the look they'd given each other. Was this going to happen every time she saw him now? She wouldn't have been surprised if his always observant eyes saw right through her mask.

But Esmé wasn't about to let her already nervous state grow more in her. Deciding she'd brushed her hair long enough, she braided the bangs and pulled back the rest of her hair. She then slipped into one of her day dresses, and then descended down the stairs, letting a yawn escape her lips and stretching her arms one last time.

She soon came upon Josette outside the dressing room. Apparently she'd missed morning practice, again. But no matter. This time she had a reasonable excuse.

Once her cousin saw her, she excused herself from the other dancers she was speaking to, and walked over to greet her.

"Esmé, you're awake." The two girls then embraced each other, and kissed the other on each cheek. "Did you sleep well?"

"I've slept better," Esmé admitted, "But it was well enough."

After making sure the others weren't listening, Josette leaned in towards her and in hushed tones asked, "How did it go?"

Esmé whispered back, "I'd rather wait until Victor is here to hear of it as well." She then looked around for a moment before asking, "Where is he?"

"Right here," a voice behind her replied.

Both Esmé and Josette let out small screams, but once they spun around to see who it was, it was only Victor, trying to hold back his laughter. Both girls immediately grew not only frustrated, but indeed, angry with him, Esmé in particular. She looked him directly in the eye and then said, "One of these days cousin, you are not going to scare me. Instead, I am going to slap you."

"Well that day isn't today is it?" Victor asked. But before either could respond, his mirth turned to a grim demeanor in less than a second. "In all seriousness though, I would like a word with both of you, in private."

Josette raised her eyebrows at her younger brother. "But where?" she asked, "To the same place we went yesterday? Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth might get suspicious."

"True," Esmé agreed. After thinking it over for a moment, she nodded to herself at the decision she made. "Come with me, we'll meet upstairs."

Josette and Victor nodded before following Esmé through the theater and then to the upstairs lodgings. After letting her cousins into the room she shared with Josette, she looked back one more time she see if anyone was behind them. Once she saw that they were safe, she closed the door behind her and sat down on Josette's bed next to her.

"Wait," Josette said, "before we speak of anything else, I would like Esmé to answer my previous question."

Esmé was about to ask which question, when she remembered what she'd asked her about earlier. She then quickly told both Josette and Victor about what happened last night, how she made her way to Wellington's house, how she took the pearls, how the police chased her, and, finally, how Mr. Holmes had seen her during the pursuit.

As she'd expected, Josette was immediately alarmed once she told her about the latter. "Are you certain he saw you?" she asked.

Esmé nodded. "I recognized him instantly," she replied.

"Oh, Esmé." Josette put her hand on her chest in an attempt to slow her breathing. "I knew something would go wrong," she then said with a hint of frustration, "I mean, it is more favorable than the other things I had in mind but…"

"I know, I know," Esmé nodded again, "It's only a matter of time before Mr. Holmes comes to the theater to investigate. But I assure you, I've got it under control."

"Then you might want to take a look at this," said Victor. Esmé then looked to see that he held a newspaper in his hand. "It's an edition of the 'Police Gazette'."

Eager to know what he was talking about, Esmé walked over and took the paper, but became confused when she saw the date. "This is from the twenty-sixth of February."

"Read it," Victor insisted.

Doing as he said, and once she saw the headline, Esmé quickly read the article beneath it. Slowly, her eyes began to widen and her heart began to race as she realized that she'd made a fatal mistake in executing her plan last night, but not the type of mistake she would have expected.

"Do you see the connection now?" Victor asked.

"Yes!" Esmé replied. She then groaned and put her head in her free hand.

"What?" Josette asked, "What's wrong?"

"Did you hear about a jewel thief who wore a black cloak and robbed two lords about two weeks ago?" Victor asked.

"I think I remember you and _Oncle_ talking about it," Josette nodded slightly, "But what does that have to do with us?"

"Josette!" Esmé almost groaned as she implored her to understand, "_I_ was wearing a black cloak last night. Not only that, but I 'stole' some jewels from another lord!"

Upon hearing that, Josette immediately remembered how her cousin had taken off in her cloak, and the impression she'd undoubtedly left on the police. She instantly put her hands to her mouth to prevent herself from gasping. "Oh no. Oh, no. This is bad. This is very, very bad. You do know what this means, right?"

"Yes," Esmé replied in a calmer tone, "both the police and Mr. Holmes are probably thinking I'm the one who stole from those two lords."

She was about to put her head back in her hand and wonder how she was going to get out of this, when she remembered the conversation she'd heard between Wellington and Felix. "Wait a minute." She then looked back at the newspaper article and read it one more time, and her eyes widened again as she read the names of the two lords who'd been robbed.

Victor quickly noticed the look that was spreading across her face. "Esmé, what are you thinking?" he asked.

Esmé looked up from the newspaper with a serious eye. "Victor, Josette, I think I might know who this thief is," she declared.

"What do you mean?" Josette asked, "How do you know?"

"Last night," Esmé then explained, "while I was hiding from Wellington, I heard him talking with the landlord of the flat. He was talking about how he paid the landlord much more than he paid his own staff, and how he'd gone to great lengths to get the jewels belonging to…"

"Lords Loxley and Hampton," Victor finished for her.

"Right," Esmé nodded, "And since he said that he paid the landlord more than he pays his staff, and ruling out the unlikely possibility that the landlord is part of his staff…"

"Then he paid the landlord to steal the jewels," Josette concluded, "so as to make it harder for himself to be convicted."

"Exactly!" Esmé exclaimed.

"But, wait a minute," Josette stopped her, "What does this have to do with you?"

"Well, all I know is that if I am found by the police, or Mr. Holmes," Esmé replied, "not only will I not be able to search for Papa, but they won't believe me when I tell them of Lord Wellington."

"What do you plan to do then?" Victor asked.

"Simple," Esmé replied, though it was admittedly easier said than done, "I plan to find a way to clear my name. But I should warn you two to be careful as well."

"Right," Victor nodded.

"And I'm going to need both of you to help."

"How?" Josette asked.

"Well, it's obvious that Mr. Holmes could come here at any time," Esmé replied, "He might even come in a disguise, so we should all be ready for anything suspicious."

"Very well," Josette nodded, "But if I may say so, you do have one stumbling block."

"What?"

"If Mr. Holmes could track down the most formidable criminal minds on the continent," Josette asked, "what makes you think he won't be able to track down you as quickly?"

For a moment, Esmé was considering her cousin's words, when she struck up a clever response. "Well, I am one thing that neither Lord Blackwood nor Professor Moriarty were."

Josette raised her eyebrows, interested to know, before Esmé told her. "I am a female. And a young female."

As she'd expected, Josette was immediately skeptical. "Oh, I highly doubt that that's going to be an advantage."

"I highly doubt that it won't," Victor countered humorously.

"Well, I suppose we should get back downstairs before anyone gets too suspecting," Josette said as she stood up, "We can probably take this up at a better time." While Esmé could tell she really thought this, she could also tell that she merely wished to end the conversation. "Are you coming Victor?"

Though he wished to take part in the planning, Victor did not wish to argue with his sister. Besides, for once, he agreed with her. They probably could discuss this at a better time and place. "Yes, sister." He then stood up and was following her out of the room, when Josette stopped and turned around.

"Esmé?"

Esmé for a moment considered her cousin's advice, but she eventually shook her head. "No, you go on," she said, "I'll join you later. I have some, thinking, to do."

Victor shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself." Then, in a more serious tone, he said, "But I would think long and hard if I were you."

"And I would consider the consequences," Josette added.

"I'll do both," Esmé nodded, "I'll speak with you later."

Her cousins both nodded and then turned and left, leaving Esmé alone to her thoughts as she wished. She closed the door and walked to her vanity, where she crossed her arms and looked at the girl looking back at her in the mirror, the one wearing the same determined, no-nonsense expression she wore.

She then opened her top drawer on the right, where the red mask she wore last night was hidden. She'd probably have to think of a better place to hide it for later on, but now, her fingers almost instinctively took hold of it, and she closed her eyes as she donned it a second time. Once she opened her eyes again, the same girl who looked exactly like her was now wearing the exact same mask.

While Esmé didn't know for certain how she was going to clear her name, she did remember Victor's earlier comment. He'd once joked that women were Sherlock Holmes' greatest weakness, but, as Esmé had remembered, he may have had a point. The majority of criminals Mr. Holmes caught were men, and he himself was one, so it wasn't unreasonable to think that she would have somewhat of an advantage in that regard. She was only glad that her papa thought it right to educate her and Josette as much as he did Victor, otherwise she probably wouldn't have the mind she possessed right now.

The thought of having an advantage over the great Sherlock Holmes made a bit of a smirk cross Esmé's lips. Let Mr. Holmes use his brilliant deductive mind to drive the criminals of Europe mad all he wished. She was going to use her considerably intelligent mind to drive him mad. Not that she thought her intelligence had the caliber of those like Lord Blackwood or Professor Moriarty, but it was likely she could use it long enough to clear her name before Mr. Holmes could catch her.

As she continued to look at her masked face, her eyes began to squint like those of a cat, and a mischievous smile began to form. _"Very well Mr. Holmes,"_ she then said in French, _"I suppose two can play at this oh-so-complicated game of cat and mouse. But this mouse will not be so easily caught."_

* * *

_Reviews would be appreciated._


	6. Dance of Deception

**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Chapter 5 – Dance of Deception

The next morning, at around ten-thirty, a black cab with two twin horses was making its way down Baker Street, and then to a most peculiar location, the local opera house. It soon pulled up in front of the house, and the moment it stopped completely, a rather finely dressed, sophisticated looking man stepped out, carrying a walking stick in his right hand, and wearing a hat on his head. He quickly thanked and paid the cab before it went back on its way down the street, leaving its former passenger to simply stare contemplatively at the house.

He had come here strictly for business, but also out of intense curiosity, and he wasn't going to leave without having satisfied both. A master at what he did, he was certain – concerning most of the people here – that he would pass as what he had come, but it was one person in particular he was planning on finding, and he could only wonder whether or not she would know, as she had seen him without his current apparel before.

Even so, the man walked inside. Once he found the manager of the house, Mr. George Ashworth, he would introduce himself as Mr. Edward Starkey, a man interested in becoming a temporary ballet master, when in reality, he was Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a man on a mission: to find this most curious of thieves.

Once he was inside, he found just how larger, and emptier, the house seemed when one took out the great number of people. Instead of two or three hundred audience members, there were only two, and then three, maids polishing the marble of the house. He looked up for a brief moment at the chandelier, wondering if they ever had time to polish that, before something caught his eye and he looked down again. A man, perhaps one of the stagehands, approached him.

"Can I help you, Sir?" he asked.

Before replying, Holmes cleared his throat. He then spoke with a slightly different, but still accented, voice. "Yes. I am Edward Starkey, and I'm here to conduct business with a Mr. George Ashworth."

"I'm afraid he's not here Sir," the man shook his head, "But, his wife is. Would you like to see her instead?"

"I suppose," Holmes nodded, hoping his glasses wouldn't come off. _I knew I should have made sure they fit._

"Follow me then," the man said. He then led Holmes down the hallway, through the nearest door of the next, and then up a staircase, where another door with the word "management" written across it awaited at the top.

The man knocked on it three times, and then a woman's voice inside replied, "Come in."

The man in response opened the door, and walked in while Holmes stayed behind until he was properly introduced.

"Madam," he said, "There is man outside – Mr. Edward Starkey, I believe – and he wishes to speak to you."

After a moment of silence was allowed to pass, the woman replied, "Very well. Please bring him in."

The man then appeared from inside the room and nodded, allowing Holmes to walk in. In front of him was a woman perhaps in her mid to late thirties, with blond hair and blue eyes, and in a dark-green dress. She stood beside a finely made desk which had a small stack of papers on her right and a bottle of ink and a writing pen on her left.

"Mr. Starkey," the stagehand said, "may I introduce Mrs. Margaret Ashworth, the co-manager of this fine opera house."

"A pleasure to meet you Madam," Holmes said. After removing his hat and revealing his red-haired wig, he then took her offered hand and kissed it.

"The pleasure is mine," she smiled softly.

As the stagehand then left, Holmes proceeded to speak with Mrs. Ashworth.

"I came to discuss some possible business prospects with your husband but, I was told he is presently absent," he said.

"Yes," Mrs. Ashworth nodded, "he usually lets me handle business affairs when he is not available. Might I be a substitute?"

"Of course," Holmes nodded. He then gave her a grim frown. "Before I speak, however, I wish to offer you my deepest sympathy, concerning your missing ballet master."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Starkey, that's very generous of you," Mrs. Ashworth smiled sadly, "He was and, I hope still is, a very fine man, expecting nothing but the very best from his dancers."

"And his family too, I imagine."

"Yes. The poor darlings have been so worried ever since he was found missing. We all have. And we can only hope that he will be found and return quickly and unharmed."

Holmes nodded and gave a slight sad smile himself. "Yes," he agreed, "I am actually an admirer of his. I came to the last show you put on."

"Did you?"

"Yes, and I was rather impressed by what I saw with the dancers. He's obviously trained them well."

"Yes," Mrs. Ashworth agreed, "It's been wonderful having him for the past five years."

"Which brings me to what I wished to discuss," Holmes continued.

"Yes?" Mrs. Ashworth raised her eyebrows in questioning.

"Well, I know this is a rather difficult time for you," he said, "But regarding the matter at hand, would you consider allowing me to be a temporary replacement for Mr. de Beaumont?"

Mrs. Ashworth raised her eyebrows this time in surprise, as Holmes expected. "Well, you're right," she then said, "This is a difficult time. But, the girls do need someone to assist them when practicing. Have you ever been a ballet master before? I'm afraid I don't recall ever hearing of you."

"No, I have not," Holmes admitted, "But I have studied ballet for a long time, and I make this offer out of sympathy."

"Then, I suppose I will consider it," Mrs. Ashworth nodded.

"While you do," Holmes then said, "tell me, who is your best dancer?"

"Well, we don't really have a 'best dancer'," Mrs. Ashworth replied, "But the ones who have been under Mr. de Beaumont's training the longest time are actually his own daughter and niece."

Holmes raised his eyebrows in interest. _So I was right_, he thought, _His daughter is one of his dancers, as well as his niece._ "Fascinating. If it is at all possible, might I meet them and, perhaps even have them dance for me?"

"Well, the latter will have to be up to them but, I suppose I can let you meet them," she replied, "They should be finishing practice with the rest."

"Excellent!" Holmes smiled, "Take me to them!"

"Of course," Mrs. Ashworth nodded. She then walked out of the room and down the stairs, Holmes following her. Taking advantage of the fact that she wasn't looking at him, for the time that he was following her to the next location he allowed intent concentration to show on his face. All the pieces were coming together. If Mr. de Beaumont's daughter, or niece, fit the image in his mind, he would have the thief unmasked. But first he had to make sure at least one of them was as agile as the one he saw leap over the cart.

Meanwhile, off the right side of the stage, while five of the dancers left the practice room, Esmé, Josette, and Victor stayed behind. Both girls eyed him suspiciously as he watched the rest leave. While it was nice of him to come and assist them with their practice, Esmé and Josette were pretty sure he'd also come to flirt with the other dancers. But now, all three of them were alone again.

"So, why did you want us to stay behind?" Josette asked as she untied the ribbons on her shoes.

Esmé stopped untying her own, and breathed a sigh of sadness, as she'd been wanting to say the following words for a while. "Truthfully," she started, looking up at both her cousins before continuing, "I want to apologize, for getting you both involved in this mess." The last three words came out in a frustrated voice, and she continued untying her shoe ribbons. "I mean, I don't even know how I got involved in it, so how could I get you in on it too?"

"Well, in all honesty I was never in complete agreement about your plan from the beginning," Josette admitted.

"And now look where it's gotten us!" Esmé exclaimed as she put her shoes off in irritation.

Though she wasn't looking, Josette gave her cousin a look of genuine empathy. "But, Esmé," she then said, "One of the things that makes us a family is that we help each other through their problems."

"Even if we do get put in prison," Victor spoke up.

"Victor!" Josette exclaimed through clenched teeth.

"But, she's right," Victor said, immediately changing his tone of voice into one of sincerity, "No matter what happens, we'll go through it together."

Esmé looked at him with skepticism. "Do you really mean that?" she asked.

"Of course," Victor nodded, "I'm not all tease am I?"

Esmé was about to suggest that yes, he was. But then she remembered how much he helped her along with Josette, how concerned both were, and how determined they all were to get her papa back. In truth, she couldn't love them anymore if they were her own siblings. As she thought over it, a smile slowly grew on her face, and she nodded.

"No, you're not," she said. She then looked at Josette, and then at Victor, before saying, "I don't exactly know how this is going to work out, but, at least I have you two with me."

"That's the spirit!" Victor smiled, causing both his sister and his cousin to smile as well. One of his better traits, they decided, was the ability to make even the grayest day a little bit brighter.

Suddenly several knocks on the door were heard, followed by a familiar sounding "Hello?"

Esmé and Josette quickly took up their shoes and stood up to join Victor near the door. "Come in," Josette then answered.

The door opened, and in walked Mrs. Ashworth, along with a man none of them recalled seeing before. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and he was likely a man of the upper middle-class, with a walking stick in one hand and a hat in the other. He sported red hair and a mustache, and he wore glasses. While both Victor and Josette had been watching for anything suspicious as Esmé had told them to, only Esmé instantly knew, once she saw his intent brown eyes behind his glasses, that this man was none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He had come to the theater in disguise to investigate as she thought he would. She admitted his disguise was pretty good, but she'd recognize those eyes anywhere. She didn't immediately call him out, however. Instead, she decided to play along and act like she didn't know.

"Mrs. Ashworth," Victor said, "Good morning."

"Good morning children," Mrs. Ashworth smiled, "Allow me to introduce Mr. Edward Starkey. He's come to visit the theater."

She then looked at "Mr. Starkey" and said, as she pointed each of them out to him, "Mr. Starkey, may I have the pleasure to introduce Mr. de Beaumont's family. His nephew, Victor. His niece, Josette. And his daughter, Esmé."

Holmes raised his eyebrows in interest again. _Ah, now I have names._ There was the possibility that the thief had accomplices, so he began an observation on all of them. Clearly, they were all related, as they all had similar looking appearances. And they were most definitely French, as noted by the same greeting they all gave him. _"Bonjour Monsieur."_ But those were both easy. The smaller details would tell him everything.

He was particularly interested in the two girls, his prime suspects. He'd remembered that the thief had dark hair and either hazel or brown eyes behind that mask, as well as the physically fit body of a dancer. But now that he saw the girls side by side, Holmes realized that trying to tell which was the thief was probably going to be a bit harder than he thought. Not only did both have all three of those traits, but they looked very much alike. Indeed, had he not known otherwise, he probably would have thought them sisters, maybe even twins. Both also wore a white tutu and tights, and held a pair of pointe shoes in their hands, so they were both dancers, as Mrs. Ashworth said. But there was only one thief, as Wellington and Lestrade told Holmes. It was either the niece or the daughter.

"Pleasure's all mine," he said. As he then proceeded to shake the boy's hand, and kiss those of the girls, he quickly observed each of them individually.

The nephew was dressed as though he was one of the middle-class. He stood straight and proud, and looked at Holmes with a respectful smile. However, as noted by his dark, slightly tousled hair, wide gray eyes, and the fact that he was a bit shorter than the niece, not only did he have a wild side, as most young boys do, but he was taken to teasing the niece and the daughter. Yet, as his stiff handshake showed, he was nervous whenever he met strangers. He also had long fingers, with which he used to play an instrument, likely the piano he saw in the room. And on his right forefinger, Holmes noticed a small paper cut, clearly an indication that the boy took to reading and was rather intelligent.

He then observed the niece. She was the tallest of the three, and had the good posture of a middle-class girl as well as a dancer. There were almost no loose strands in her pulled back hair, and Holmes smelled the scent of perfume. She took pride in her appearance. But she also appeared to be humble, as she gave a sweet smile devoid of pretentiousness, and lowered her eyes briefly to show respect when Holmes kissed her hand. By the mature air with which she carried herself, the fact that there was no mother with them, and how she briefly eyed the nephew and then the daughter, Holmes deduced that not only was she the oldest of the three, but she also acted as a mother figure toward the other two.

Lastly, he observed the daughter, which he soon found the most interesting of the three. Shorter than the niece but with the same good posture, she wore no perfume and had several loose strands of hair, an indication that she was somewhat more dedicated to dancing than the niece. She gave the smallest smile of the three, and Holmes also noticed a prominent look of anxiety in her eyes. He then saw that her skin was slightly more tan than the niece's, and her hair and eye color were both a bit darker as well. Perhaps she had, Gypsy ancestry? And the way she looked at him, nervously. Not at meeting a stranger – her hand wasn't stiff – but as though she were, concealing a dramatic secret.

"Might I ask what brings you here, Mr. Starkey?" Josette asked.

"Well," Holmes replied, "before I say so, allow me to say that, I'm very sorry that Mr. de Beaumont has disappeared. Please, accept my condolences."

_"Merci Monsieur,"_ said Victor.

_"Oui, merci,"_ Josette added, "It has been hard but, we haven't completely fallen apart."

"And for that I commend you," Holmes smiled. But then, he frowned again in seriousness before saying, "That being said, I know this may be rather difficult for all of you but, Mrs. Ashworth is considering allowing me to be a temporary replacement for him."

"We did not send for one," Esmé said, a hint of contempt in her voice.

"But I am offering my service both out of sympathy and respect for your father, _Mademoiselle_," he said, "And Mrs. Ashworth believes you and your fellow dancers need some assistance."

"True," Esmé nodded honestly. Though she, Josette, and the others were doing well on their own, she admitted her papa's absence was a growing problem. However, she immediately remembered that this man was Mr. Holmes in disguise. She couldn't allow herself to follow his, rather well-crafted, charade too much.

"And, if you are willing, I would most appreciate it if you and your cousin were to dance for me," he then said.

Esmé's eyes widened, as she wondered why he would ask for that, when it suddenly dawned on her. Since he'd seen her leap over that cart in the grand style of a well-trained dancer, he likely wanted to see if she'd do it again, thus catching her literally on the spot.

"Mrs. Ashworth has told me you two are the best dancers here," he said, "and I would very much like to see the talent I could be working with."

For a moment, Esmé blinked twice, not really knowing what to say or what to do, since even the slightest mistake could give her away. Fortunately, once she looked to her right, she remembered she wasn't alone. If she was going to prevent Mr. Holmes from succeeding in catching her, she was going to need help from her cousins.

She gave a soft, innocent smile. "Might I discuss it with my cousins?" she asked.

In spite of her expectations, Mr. Holmes nodded. "Of course."

_"Merci,"_ Esmé nodded back. She then walked passed him and Mrs. Ashworth while Josette and Victor followed her out of the room and into the hall. Once the door was closed, they hurried over behind a corner leading down a hallway, and got into a circle.

"It's him," Esmé said quietly, "I knew he would come."

"But, he seemed so nice," Josette said.

Upon hearing those words, Esmé didn't want to admit it, but she was right. He was much more pleasant than she thought he would be. His words of sympathy didn't seem merely an actor's well-performed role, but ones he really meant. And in a way, she did admire his determination to find her, even if he was misguided. But then, her other cousin's words brought her back into reality.

"The man is a master of disguise," Victor said, "To do that he has to be a superb actor."

"Yes Victor, but…" Esmé stopped suddenly. She had been trying to think of an idea ever since he arrived – she desperately hoped her anxiety didn't show – but suddenly, once she heard Victor, it was as though someone lit a lantern in a dark, thoughtless void.

"So will we," she then said.

Both Josette and Victor gave her looks of confusion. "What do you mean?" Josette asked.

"I have an idea," Esmé replied, feelings of mischief slowly arising within her, "It's far-fetched, but it might work."

"Well, if it's far-fetched, perhaps we should think of something else," Josette said.

"Then if either of you have thought up anything I'm willing to listen," said Esmé, though in the back of her mind she really wanted to go with her idea.

Josette and Victor then looked at one another. After a moment or two of thinking, Victor only shrugged his shoulders while Josette let out a sigh of disappointment.

"I have nothing," Victor admitted.

"So do I," Josette frowned, "have nothing, that is."

The two then looked back at Esmé, who, in her mind, was smiling at what they'd said.

"I'm listening," Victor said once he looked back at his cousin.

"Here's the plan," Esmé said, trying not to smile too much. In truth, she herself was somewhat skeptical about this, but she was willing to try anything to stay one step ahead of Mr. Holmes.

While she explained her plan, Holmes and Mrs. Ashworth waited for them inside the practice room.

"They are remarkable children," Mrs. Ashworth said to break the silence.

"I agree," Holmes nodded, though he thought them remarkable in a different way than she intended, "They are most interesting."

"Do you have any children, Mr. Starkey?" Mrs. Ashworth asked.

"I'm afraid not," Holmes replied, wishing he had a pipe to smoke, "In truth, the ways of women interest me little."

"Well, that's unfortunate," Mrs. Ashworth frowned.

"Not so much if you see it from my point of view," Holmes said. Though, if he was completely honest, while he thought most women were too emotional and distracting, there would be one who would occasionally catch his eye, even if he probably shouldn't have allowed them to. As for one of the two he'd just met, he may have built a psychological profile of her, but now he had to see what she could do physically. That is, if she permitted him to.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and Holmes met Esmé's smile as she walked in.

"We've decided to accept your request, _Monsieur_," she said.

Holmes raised his eyebrows at her. "Lovely," he said, "I shall head for the seating area then."

"And, I'm afraid I must get back to the office," Mrs. Ashworth said apologetically, "I would stay but, your offer isn't the only thing I need to take under consideration."

"Of course," Holmes nodded, "I shall speak to you at a different time then?"

"Perhaps," Mrs. Ashworth nodded back, "Good day Mr. Starkey."

"And you Madam."

The fine woman then headed toward the door and nodded at the three in the hallway. "Children."

All of them nodded back at her, and then turned back to the man in front of them.

"Right then, let us proceed," he said. He then took his hat and his walking stick, which he'd set down at the piano, and walked out of the room, his back to Esmé and her cousins as they walked behind him.

"Would it be appropriate for my brother to play the piano for us _Monsieur_?" Josette asked, "He's a wonderful pianist."

Holmes turned his head around and said, "Whatever is agreeable to you."

Then, once they got to the stage, he turned around to face Esmé and Josette while Victor went over to the right wing, where another piano sat. "If I may ask though," Holmes said, "how old are you?"

"I am eighteen," Josette replied.

"Seventeen," Esmé replied.

"Fifteen here!" Victor called back.

Holmes allowed himself to chuckle slightly, before returning to his investigation which required utmost seriousness. "And, how long have you been under Mr. de Beaumont's training?" he asked the girls.

"Ten years," Esmé replied, "But, then again, I've been dancing for as long as I can remember."

"Then I look forward to seeing what your father has taught you _Mademoiselle_," Holmes gave a small smile.

Despite not wanting to, Esmé slightly returned it. "I hope you will like what you see," she said.

As she then watched him make his way to the seating area, Esmé hoped her plan would work. And yet, she felt almost, guilty in a way. But, what reason did she have to feel so? She was just wanted to search for her father. And that devious, conniving rat of a man Wellington needed to be stopped. But even if this did go according to plan, she'd have to come up with an ingenious idea to get out of this mess.

"Esmé," she suddenly heard Josette say. She turned around and looked at her with questioning eyes.

"Your shoes," Josette said, pointing to the pair in her hand. That was when Esmé saw that her cousin was putting hers on.

"Oh, yes," Esmé nodded. She then proceeded to put hers on as well.

"Was it _'Anitra's Dance'_ sister?" Victor, now sitting in front of the piano at the ready, asked.

"Yes, Victor," Josette replied, "But give us a moment."

Once she heard the name of the song they were dancing to, Esmé felt a soft smile return to her lips. About a month ago, for her papa's birthday, she and Josette performed for him a dance they'd themselves choreographed while Victor played the piano. Her papa had said it was one of his very favorite birthday presents he'd ever received. But now, as much as she didn't like it, she couldn't think about him. Though, this was the dance they'd decided to perform, and for a specific reason.

Esmé released a short sigh. She was beginning to wonder if she'd even remember the steps. But once the ribbons on her shoes were tied, she and Josette, with a shared smile, walked over to the middle of the stage, taking their positions. Esmé allowed only one more thought of her father to enter her mind when she remembered to do what he taught her to do if she began feeling stage-fright: She took a slow deep breath.

Then, once Victor played the first note, and with Mr. Holmes watching their every move, Esmé and Josette began dancing to _"Anitra's Dance"_ by Edvard Grieg.

Even before he saw the first few steps, Holmes knew he would see some fine dancing. As the boy played, and the girls danced, he watched them with keen eyes, and in an intrigued – and watchful – manner. He truly was an admirer of this ballet master, and what was said about him wanting nothing less but the best from his dancers, including his family, proved to be true after he watched for about half a minute. The girls moved to the music as if it were natural for them to do so. Every move was like a line of poetry set in motion. And whenever they were on their toes, it looked like they might as well be walking on air. But even so, his mind remained focused on the mission at hand.

And that was when he noticed the problem that was slowly arising in front of him. While the movements performed were lovely and interesting to watch, Holmes never did see something of a grander scale. He'd hoped that by watching the clearly well-trained girls dance – particularly the daughter, Esmé – he would see a leap like the one he saw just two nights before, and thus have all the evidence he needed. But as he continued to watch, he didn't see anything that looked like what he'd seen before. And as a result, he began having the sense that something wasn't right.

Even so, he still smiled and applauded once the music ended and the girls curtsied. _"Magnifique,"_ he said, "Wonderful."

"_Merci_ Mr. Starkey," Esmé smiled.

That was when Holmes stopped applauding, and decided to put on a more critical air, keeping with his disguise but wanting to find out what exactly was going on before he left. "Yes. But, I should say, although that was most excellent, I was expecting, a little more, physicality if you will."

"Well, with all due respect, Mr. Starkey," Esmé said, "we'd only finished practicing when you arrived and asked me and Josette to dance."

"Well, even so, might I have a word with you, here?" Holmes asked, indicating the seating area where he was, away from the stage.

Oddly enough, Esmé nodded, the small smile still on her face. "As you wish." Holmes then eyed her as she made her way from the stage down to the seating area where he was. Once she was near to him, he stood up from his seat and stood just a few inches in front of her, his eyes focused on hers. "You wished to speak to me Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes…" That was when Holmes abruptly stopped, and his eyes widened with surprise, which was rather rare for him. But he hadn't lost his ability to speak just yet. "What, did you call me?"

"I called you Mr. Holmes," Esmé replied, her smile now fading into a frown. Before he could ask, she explained, "Yes, my cousins and I know it's you. We've known the whole time since you arrived."

"And how?" Holmes asked, finding himself somewhat eager to know the answer despite his astonishment.

"Oh, I've seen you a few times before," Esmé replied, a ghost of a smirk crossing her face, "including our little, encounter, you may recall us having just a few nights ago."

Holmes wondered briefly what she was talking about, when suddenly, he did recall that dancer with a painted face, and wearing a red sash. "So that was you," he realized.

"Yes," Esmé nodded.

"But exactly how could you have known," Holmes asked, "if you've only seen me but a few times?"

"Oh I never forget a face I find interesting," Esmé replied, with her eyebrows raised, "especially if the person is as equally interesting. Next time, you might want to wear lenses to change your eye color."

Holmes raised his eyebrows in return, but in surprise rather than boldness. "Clever," he admitted, but not in bitterness. Indeed, even if this girl did manage to see past his façade, he found himself almost admiring it. "Not many can see through my disguises."

But the surprises of course didn't end there. In fact, as Esmé spoke further Holmes became even more astonished. "As to your reason for being here, you've come to investigate and gather clues regarding the identity of the Masked Gypsy, and in doing so you have found me to be a prime suspect."

Holmes was about to ask how she'd known that, when, again, she interrupted him. "Not only was this thief described as having leaped over a cart in an athletic manner, which would fit a ballet dancer like me, but, you've also deduced, once you saw my tan skin, dark hair, and brown eyes, that I might have Gypsy ancestry. In that case, you are right. My mother was a Gypsy."

Holmes found himself only nodding at what she said, not allowing his perplexity at her practically getting inside his mind to show on his face. But whatever game she was playing, he wasn't about to let himself become her pawn.

Esmé continued. "And I will admit, this does seem on the surface to be rather conclusive evidence. However, I don't think you have answered one crucial question." She then looked him sternly in the eye and asked, "By what reason would a person like me steal?"

At this, Holmes allowed for a brief look of confusion to cross his face. Though this girl had confounded him so, she did have a point. In focusing so much on catching her in the act, he hadn't really thought of possible motives, believing he'd learn of them once he caught her. But now, indeed, it seemed that he'd hit a stumbling block on the pathway to solving this case. However, after thinking it over briefly, Holmes believed he'd found a way around it. "Funds?" he suggested, "An easy way to raise money to search for your father?"

"And only bring shame on myself in the process?" Esmé countered, "Furthermore, I have never lived on the streets nor do I intend to. I am well-off financially, physically, somewhat emotionally…"

"But mentally?" Holmes interrupted her, raising his eyebrows with renewed suspicion, "Do I detect hints of a split personality?"

Again, in spite of his expectations, Esmé only shook her head. "Mr. Holmes," she said in the most honest of tones, "if I did have a split personality, would I not have been committed to an asylum by now? I mean, you can search the files of every doctor in London, and I can assure you that, concerning split personalities, you will not find one with my name on it. You can even search those of, Dr. John Watson, is it?"

For Holmes, that was when the stumbling block in the road seemed to cement itself in place, as he found that this girl might be telling the truth, despite his previous certainty that she was the one. He remembered how he and Watson discussed the missing ballet master just a few days ago, and when his daughter was brought up, Watson had nothing to say about her, medical or otherwise. If she didn't have a split personality, then that made his claim about her trying to get easy money to find her father even more absurd, because no young woman of respectable upbringing and with mental sanity, no matter how much she wished for her father's safe return, would defy the law and put herself in danger to find him.

He did recall seeing this girl's superb acting on stage, but then, Holmes also remembered that most of it was a genuine expression of grief. Even here, her tone of voice and her body language showed no signs of having anything to hide like what he thought he'd seen before. Perhaps he really was mistaken about this girl.

Holmes breathed a long, deep sigh, knowing that this investigation wasn't going to be as easy as he thought. "Very well," he then said to Esmé, "You may not be the one I'm looking for after all."

Esmé blinked twice at him. However, even then, Holmes gave her a look of utmost seriousness. "But heed my words," he said, "Unless I find evidence to the contrary, you will continue to be on my list of suspects. Is that clear?"

_"Oui, Monsieur," _Esmé nodded, "Very much so."

Holmes nodded back at her, gave a near smile, and then proceeded to go back to his seat where he'd left his hat and walking stick. "Since I have no further business here," he said, "I shall be kind enough to depart."

Once he had his hat and walking stick back in his hands, he walked over to Esmé and stood before her one last time. "Remember my words."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Esmé nodded, a small smile returning to her face, "I bid you good day."

"And I you," Holmes said, a frown remaining on his, "Good day."

Without another word, he turned around and walked away from her, while she watched the whole time, her smile once again fading into a frown, before he finally left her sight.

As Esmé then turned around, and walked back to the stage, all she could think about was what she'd just done. Had she managed to outsmart the great detective himself? It seemed that, by a stroke of good fortune, she had. She had put all of her acting talent into that performance, pushing aside any mischievous attitude she had previously that might have given her away. And although she was sure Mr. Holmes would hear the sound of her heart pounding against her chest, he apparently had not.

She then thought of how he'd kissed her hand, and how he liked her dance despite expecting more. Indeed, while she was flattered by his attentions, she was also, in a way, scared by them. She felt like a deer being chased by a hunter, a hunter named Holmes, and if he'd seen through her dance of deception, he would have put her in cuffs, locked her in a prison cell, and thrown away the key.

It was only then that Esmé realized the true gravity of the situation, and how hard she would have to put her mind at work in order to clear her name, and then try to search for her father. But what could she do? All she had as evidence to substantiate her claim against Wellington and Felix was the conversation she heard between them.

Suddenly, that was when Esmé felt again as though she'd found a lantern in an intellectual tunnel of darkness. Though she still didn't allow a smile to cross her lips, perhaps there was something she could do to clear her name after all.

"Well, that went well," Victor said as he stood up from the piano and walked over to stand next to his sister.

When Josette saw the frown on her cousin's face, she herself smiled in an attempt to lift her spirits. "And I didn't think it would work," she said.

"Well it did," Esmé replied, still frowning, "But I'm going to have to think even harder if I'm going to show him I'm not a thief."

"Well, you've managed to outthink Holmes, which I will always find hard to believe," Victor said, "so who's to say you can't find a way to clear your name?"

"I think I already have," Esmé said, finally allowing a smile, even if it was small, to find its way onto her face, "I'm going to need some paper, writing utensils, a seal and wax, and red ink."

"You're writing a letter?" Josette asked.

"Precisely," Esmé replied.

Suddenly, Josette herself frowned. "Please tell me it will be thoughtful and civilized."

"Of course," Esmé nodded, smiling slightly bigger in an attempt to return the favor to her cousin.

A few hours later, in the early afternoon, a young woman wearing a familiar black scarf around her head and face, hiding her face from the world, was making her way down Baker Street, the last place most would expect her to go. In her hand, she carried a folded piece of paper, sealed with red wax, an indication that this was a business letter. Once she saw the number of the intended flat – 221B – she quickly headed over to it and walked up the front steps. Then, after making sure no one was watching, she placed the letter on the ground, and knocked loudly on the door five times.

Inside, the landlady, who had heard the knocking from upstairs, hurried down to the foyer to answer the door. But once she opened it, she was immediately confused to find that no one was there. "Hello?" she said. But no one answered. She looked left and right, yet no one in the streets looked back up at her. Suddenly though, as she turned around to go back in, her eye caught something. She turned back around, looked down, and found a lone sealed letter waiting for her. With a gloved hand, she picked it up, frowned at the seal, and then again when she saw the other side. After thinking it over, she realized who this letter was most likely for, and walked back inside to deliver it to him.

After walking back up the stairs and going to nearest room at the top, Mrs. Hudson let out a brief sigh before knocking on the closed door and calling for the man inside. When she received no answer, she opened the door and called again, "Mr. Holmes?"

"Not now Nanny," he said roughly.

Mrs. Hudson was then perplexed to find that the detective, who had abandoned his disguise hours ago, was now in a most curious position: sitting at his desk, writing furiously on a poor piece of parchment.

"Mr. Holmes, might I ask what you're doing?" she asked, although she was slightly afraid to know.

"I'm writing a book," he replied.

"A book? What about?"

_"How to Be Made a Fool in Half an Hour or Less,"_ Holmes grimly announced the title.

Despite not knowing whether or not he was serious, Mrs. Hudson was willing to trade the parchment in her hand for the other. "Well, if you're willing to stop pitying yourself for a few minutes, I have a letter for you."

"A letter?" Holmes stopped writing and turned around to see the folded paper the landlady held.

"Yes," Mrs. Hudson replied, "There's no name on it but, I can only assume, based on how unusual it looks, that it's probably addressed to you."

"Oh, let me see it Nanny," Holmes insisted, clearly not in the mood to be annoyed.

Without saying a word, Mrs. Hudson gladly handed out the letter, allowing Holmes to take it for himself. But then, as he observed the folded paper, he found that he agreed with Mrs. Hudson. It looked most unusual. A blank, red seal was found on one side, but then he looked at the opposite. What he found instantly made his eyes widen: a drawing of a decorated mask done in red ink. Wasting no time, Holmes opened the letter, and saw that the revealed words were written not in English, but in French, and in the same red ink as the drawing. He quickly translated as he read.

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_I will meet you at the home of Lord Richard Wellington tonight, at nine o' clock. Come alone, otherwise I will know._

_Yours truly,_

_The Masked Gypsy_

Once he finished reading it, Holmes, despite having been made the titular fool of his made-up book, felt a renewed determination to find out who this confounding thief was, and why she wanted a meeting at the home of Lord Wellington. Could it be that she was trying to trap him? Perhaps. Though there might have been other possibilities, Holmes couldn't allow himself to become complacent. If this was a trap, and he was unprepared for it, who knew what could happen to him? No, despite the other possibilities, there was only one thing Holmes could do: He would set up a trap for her.

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_Reviews would be appreciated._


	7. Lady in Red

_A/N: This scene alone is pretty much what inspired me to write this story. I wrote it while listening to "Wandering Seer" and "Dance of the Oracle" from the Soul Calibur V OST._

* * *

**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Chapter 6 – Lady in Red

The rest of the day's hours ticked by rather quickly. The afternoon soon turned into evening, and the clouds that once again covered the grimmest city in the world began to darken as the blocked sun began its descent. As it did, two very different but determined people planned for the night ahead, both wanting to be sure theirs was the one that worked, but not knowing exactly what the other was planning. What both knew for sure though, was that the Masked Gypsy was making another appearance.

Once it was after eight o' clock, the girl behind the mask headed to the dressing room, her clothing in her hands. She almost felt like she was preparing for a performance, but this performance would be unlike any she'd done before. Still, she prepared herself in the usual way she did: stretching her body, and taking slow, deep breaths, feeling one of the biggest cases of stage fright she had in a while.

Esmé repeated the cycle she did just a couple of nights ago. After donning the bodice, gloves, and wrist bands, she then – with a smirk – pulled on the trousers, followed by the vest, sash, and the boots. Once all of her clothes were on, she pulled her hair back in a high ponytail, and tied the red ribbon into a bow. Finally, she looked at her signature mask she'd put down in front of the mirror, blinking once, then twice, in contemplation, before finally taking it in her hand.

Suddenly, she heard a couple of knocks on the door, causing her to gasp and drop the mask in surprise.

"Esmé?" a feminine voice said, "Are you in there?"

Esmé breathed a sigh of relief at recognizing Josette's voice. "Come in," she said.

Josette did as she said and walked in, Victor following her. Both looked concerned just as they did two nights before.

Esmé sighed an unemotional sigh. "Have you come to talk me out of my next plan?" she asked humorlessly.

"Well, just because you were fortunate that one night doesn't mean it will happen again tonight," Josette explained.

"And how do you know you're not walking into a trap?" Victor asked.

"You forget," Esmé said, holding up her knife which she then strapped around her leg, "I have a weapon."

"And you're going to stab anyone who threatens you?" Josette asked, "Even Mr. Holmes?"

"Of course I'm not going to stab him!" Esmé exclaimed.

"Well, what I don't understand is why you don't simply tell him who you are," Josette said, shaking her head disapprovingly.

"It's not that simple Josette," Esmé said, shaking her head slightly harder in frustration, "All I have for evidence against Wellington is the conversation between him and Felix, and Wellington is no fool. If he's smart enough to hire Felix to do his dirty work for him, he's likely smart enough to find a way around this as well."

"Then why won't you let us help you?" Josette asked.

"I'm afraid that's not an option either," Esmé shook her head again, "Both of you could get in just as much trouble for helping me."

"She has a point," Victor admitted to his sister.

"Hush!" Josette almost sneered, causing Victor to raise his eyebrows in alarm. She then looked back at her cousin with renewed seriousness.

"Esmé, what I mean to say is, you might be getting a bit too involved in this," she said.

"And like I said before," Victor spoke up, "you could be walking into a trap."

"I didn't ask to get involved in this in the first place," Esmé said, appreciating that her cousins cared for her but agitation slowly rising in her voice, "But since I did, I've got to do whatever it takes to get out of it."

The brother and sister in front of her only looked at each other with a blank expression on both faces. Josette shrugged her shoulders while Victor shook his head. It was no use.

"Then we're not going to be able to talk you out of this?" Victor asked.

"I'm afraid not," Esmé shook her head, "I must do something, otherwise we could be in more trouble than we're already in."

Josette then let out a heavy sigh, wondering if this situation would ever end. "Then be very, very careful," she warned her, "If it looks like even the slightest bit of trouble, get out of there."

"I intend to," Esmé nodded, "I'll see you when I get back."

"Will do cousin," Victor gave a small smile, causing Esmé to smile back.

She then proceeded toward the door, before Josette stopped her. "Wait, Esmé. Your mask."

Esmé put her hand to her face, and her eyes widened when she realized she was right. She immediately turned around and walked back toward the mirror and took the mask in her hands. She then closed her eyes, and breathed a small sigh, before slowly putting it on. Once she opened her eyes again, she beheld the image that had surprised her only two nights ago, yet, this time, it felt oddly comfortable and familiar. She was once again the Masked Gypsy, London's Robin Hood. And tonight, she would face her Sheriff of Nottingham, no matter the risks.

She then nodded to herself and turned back toward Josette and Victor.

"Well my merry cousins," she said, trying to smile, "I bid you _adieu_."

_"Adieu," _they both said, trying to return the smile.

Esmé nodded at them before she went back to the door, and left them behind in the dressing room. She then traveled quietly across the empty stage, through one of the back doors, and finally, out into the cool night air, which she instantly breathed in, before heading out to the city under the vast, black sky, without that equally black, accursed cloak which had gotten her into this predicament.

As she traveled through the alleyways and across the streets like she did before, she quickly went over her plan in her head one more time. She was going to arrive at Wellington's home at least half an hour early and find out where he was keeping the stolen jewels, one of which she would take to present to Mr. Holmes, since he might ask for immediate proof. She would then lead him to where Wellington kept his jewels, and expose him as the thief he was. Afterward, she would lead him to the home of Lord Hampton, where she would return his jewels along with a note containing a simple message: _Speak of this to no one until the proper time._ Only when all of the jewels were returned and Wellington was arrested would she reveal her identity.

It was rather risky, she admitted. But at this point, trying was better than hiding. And she wasn't simply going to tell Mr. Holmes the truth, she was also going to show him, which would be far more effective. It was a very slim opening, but she had to try and pass through it. Even so, Esmé still allowed herself to wonder how she had literally fallen into this situation. All she wanted to do in the beginning was to get Mr. Holmes to pay attention, and to help someone in need. Yet she had been framed for a crime she didn't commit – partially through her own doing – and she was a wanted woman.

Esmé felt such strong distress over it that she found herself wishing her maman were here. What would she have said after her papa disappeared? What would she have done? Why did she have to leave them, and why did they have to leave France…? Suddenly, she then remembered something her maman would often say to her and her cousins. That we should not spend too much time dwelling on the past, as it distracts us from living in the present and, more importantly, preparing for the future.

Once she recalled that, Esmé realized that – as much as she wanted to – she couldn't concentrate on her maman or what she would have done. What was important now was what _she_ would do. And the answer quickly became clear to her – though, getting closer and closer to facing it made her more and more nervous. Even so, she was going to prove that she was who she said she was, she who serves the oppressed, no matter what their station. And if she was walking into a trap, well, at least she tried. Not trying at all was out of the question from the beginning.

Before she knew it, she had stopped near Wellington's home. She could feel her pounding heart, but through taking a few quick, but deep breaths, she managed to calm herself before she took her first step out of the alleyway that hid her. It immediately became clear to her once she did, that she'd passed the point of no return.

She dashed across the road as fast as she could, and stopped as soon as she was once again hidden in the shadows, giving herself time to think briefly over Wellington might be keeping those jewels. If he'd kept the pearls along with his own other valuables, it was likely that he'd kept the stolen ones somewhere in that room too – perhaps in a secret compartment somewhere. If not, well, she'd search the whole house until she found them. What she was really hoping now, though, was that her first theory would prove to be correct.

But then, as Esmé took her first step toward the back of the house, she looked to the left and saw what appeared to be a shadow underneath the light of the street-lamp in front of the house. Her heart immediately leaped, and she just as immediately looked around the corner to see where it was coming from. She saw nothing, not even a silhouette in the shadows. Still, she didn't think she was seeing things. She had the sense that she was not alone.

Even so, she returned her focus on the task at hand. She had only half an hour to find her direct proof against Wellington, and she wasn't about to waste any more time. She made her way down the side of the house to the back, where she unlocked the door just as she did before. It opened to the same dark room, with the same light coming from the top of the stairs. She walked quietly but briskly up the steps, and opened the door to the dimly-lit hallway.

Feeling the same anxiety she felt before – maybe even more – Esmé grit her teeth, and gave one last deep breath, before venturing down the second floor hall and then traveling up the stairs to the third floor as silently but as quickly as she could, biting her lip the whole way, wondering if she was walking into a trap after all.

By the time she got to the door leading to the jewelry room, she had to force herself to even touch the knob. It was almost as though she were standing between some scales, with the need to leave and the need to go in on opposite ends, both threatening to weigh more than the other. Eventually though, Esmé pressed her lips together in frustration, and quickly unlocked the door with her knife. Nothing was going to stop her, not even herself. Still, she let the door open slowly – and was relieved to hear not one creak – before she slipped in, and closed it shut again.

Meanwhile, inside the room, a lone figure ceased moving altogether once he saw the door open – once he saw the brief but unmistakable silhouette against the dim light in the hallway beyond. He hid behind the case on the left side of the room, and wore a long black cloak to conceal him in the darkness, and he had been doing so for a long time already. He'd come here earlier as part of the plan he'd explained to Wellington, and now that he knew she was in the room, his suspicions had been confirmed. She did come here to try and make off with one of the jewels before "meeting" with him. But he didn't go out after her just yet. No. He needed to let her think she had the upper hand. Only when she started to leave would he reveal himself.

The moment Esmé was inside, a shiver traveled up her spine, despite the slight humidity the room gave off. The air felt flat, and her hands felt limp, but she straightened herself up, and walked quietly around, wondering where the stolen jewels could possibly be. She knew what she was looking for. Lord Hampton owned a very fine, and large, yellow topaz necklace with small diamonds encircling the biggest one in the center. Though there was barely any light in the room, she carefully examined it. There weren't any small boxes like the one that contained the pearls, and Wellington obviously wouldn't put them out in the open. Where could he possibly be hiding them?

_Think Esmé, think!_ she implored herself silently. The possibility of a secret compartment re-entered her mind, and she began to wonder if there could be a sort of secret lever on either one of the wooden cases. Transferring her wondering to her gloved hands, she began feeling for anything suspicious, when, suddenly, her eyes caught in the light a rectangular shape on the edge of the top of the case. It took her a few seconds before she realized it looked like a small drawer, without a knob. It was common for pieces of furniture like this one to have pieces that looked like drawers but did not open, mostly for decorative purposes. But Esmé had the feeling there was more to this than met the eye.

Biting her lip and hoping this might be it, she put her fingers around the drawer-looking piece, and pulled.

Despite her own expectations, Esmé gasped softly when she found that it worked. It opened as easily as any drawer would. But it was what she found inside that made her eyes widen. It wasn't the topaz necklace, but it was something just as exquisite, if not more so: a necklace of the greenest emeralds she'd ever seen. Esmé couldn't help but wonder whether Wellington had stolen these too. In fact, who was to say he didn't steal everything he displayed here?

Esmé shook her head slightly, reminding herself that she hadn't come here to speculate. Thinking there might be another drawer on the case, she closed the one in front of her and felt around for another one. Before long, she touched a familiar shape, put her fingers around it, and opened another drawer. Inside, though she couldn't see it clearly, she did see the sparkling of very fine gems.

She felt her heart pound against her chest as she carefully took them out and them held them up to the light. To her great excitement, she saw that she was holding the topaz necklace she'd been looking for, with the same circle of diamonds bordering the largest one in the middle. In her disbelief at holding something so fine, she almost dropped it, but she caught herself just in time. She then quickly opened the bag on her belt, slipped them inside, and sighed with relief now that she'd found proof against Wellington.

She then walked toward the door with renewed determination at completing her mission. But then, right when she was about to touch the doorknob, she heard a male voice directly behind her, speaking in French, _"Bonsoir, chérie." Good evening, darling._

Esmé's eyes immediately widened as she realized that she was right about not being alone, and she had only a split second to react. Knowing the man was behind her, and that they were in a darkened room, she ducked, turned around, and shoved herself against her attacker. As he fell to the ground, she hastily opened the door and dashed out of the room and out of the hall, intent on eluding the one who tried to capture her.

Holmes could barely believe what just happened. While he did expect some resistance from the thief, he didn't expect her to knock him to the floor. Even so, as he heard her run down the hall, he quickly got back on his feet and hurried out the door after her. He heard footsteps down the staircase that led to the second floor, so he ran for it. But once he traveled down all the steps, he lost sight of her. Suddenly, he heard a door slam shut, and turned his head to see that she'd decided to go down to the cellar and out the back door. Holmes wondered how he was going to get to her, when he saw at the end of the hallway a slightly open window. Since this was the second floor, and since he'd done this plenty of times before, he ran for the window, opened it all the way, and then jumped out.

Esmé flew out the back door, happy that she'd escaped the man. But once she was outside, she couldn't decide which way to go. Knowing she didn't have much time, lest he catch her, Esmé decided on a whim to go left, but just as she was starting to, a tall figure in a black cloak jumped down in front of her, causing her to stop and step back in alarm.

_"I thought you wished to meet with me,"_ he said in French. Esmé opened her mouth to reply in the same language, when the man in front of her pulled back the hood of his cloak. Though it was dark in the alleyway, her eyes widened as she saw his features in the little light there was, features she instantly recognized. Sherlock Holmes.

So she had walked into a trap, just as Victor had warned her. Though she managed to escape it, it wasn't unreasonable to assume Mr. Holmes would try again. All she knew was that she had to follow Josette's advice: she was now in trouble, and she had to get out of here.

Keeping any hint of anxiety out of her voice, Esmé replied, _"I wasn't expecting you there."_

_"Clearly,"_ Holmes said. Esmé then watched as he reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out something that made her eyes widen even more than before: a pair of handcuffs.

_"No!" _she exclaimed softly, _"You can't do this! I won't let you!"_

_"I'm afraid you have no choice,"_ he said, _"You're coming with me."_

As Holmes stood in front of the Masked Gypsy, the handcuffs in his right hand, his eyes caught something. He looked for only a brief moment to discover that the thief had a knife strapped around her leg, and her hand was near it. So she was armed as he'd thought, and she would likely use it to attack him. Now he knew he had to stop her, yet Holmes had to figure out how he was going to pin her down without seriously hurting her, since she was a woman after all. Only if it was absolutely necessary would he use real physical force.

_This must be quick, but without much pain._

_First, grab opponent's right wrist._

_Slap the hand, dislodging the weapon._

_Grab left wrist, and cross the right arm over the left._

_Throw opponent to the ground._

_Grab wrist of the assailing right hand, and force arm behind the back._

_Followed by the left arm._

_Take handcuffs and detain._

_Place opponent on back._

_And finally, remove mask._

_In summary: bruising on right hand, both wrists, upper and forearms, and shoulders, but otherwise unharmed and taken down, with identity revealed._

_Physical recovery: seven days._

_Forced psychological recovery: seven weeks._

Esmé stood her ground, her feet planted to it, with her hands now formed into tight fists. It was clear to her that unless she did something to counter him, all that she'd worked for would prove meaningless. Once again, not trying anything was out of the question. Even if she did eventually go to prison, she wouldn't go down without a fight.

_I must be fast._

_First, distract opponent by throwing dirt in his face._

_Employ downward kick to the ankles._

_Jump over attempted kick from the ground, and fall onto back._

_From there, kick handcuffs out of hand._

_Grab them._

_Followed by opponent's arm._

_From behind, detain._

_Throw opponent to the ground._

_And then make escape._

_In summary: both eyes and right hand hurting, but otherwise unhurt, and attempted trap failed._

_Physical recovery: five minutes._

_Forced psychological recovery: unknown._

For seconds that felt like hours, both stood ready, awaiting the other to make the first move. Both of them were about to take a step forward, when suddenly, both heard the sound of something – a foot maybe – slipping against the ground. Holmes turned around for a brief second to see if he was about to be ambushed, while Esmé, seeing a very slim opportunity – but one worth taking – of escape turned around and took off. Holmes instantly turned around again once he heard her.

"Woman!" he shouted. But she didn't stop. Wasting no more time, he untied and let loose his cloak and ran after her, determined to find out who exactly this thief was, and why she was acting so strangely.

Esmé ran as fast as she possibly could, arms once again stretched out behind her to get maximum speed. She knew that Holmes, being taller than she was, would have naturally long strides. She, however, was a physically trained dancer with strong legs. No matter what, though, she had to outrun him, get him off her trail somehow. She could hear him behind her, occasionally calling out to her, but that only made her run even faster. She weaved through alleyways, dodged past people on the street, and darted past any obstacles in her way. Her heart beat against her chest like a fist against a locked door, both in the need to elude Holmes, and in response to the demands of running so fast and so hard, but she continued running, determined not to let the black cat catch his red mouse.

But at one point, to her great dismay, Esmé found herself standing in front of a high wall behind two buildings. Both the left and the right were blocked off, and her breathing grew short as she heard Holmes not far behind. She looked desperately for a hiding place, when she saw what looked like a barrel in the shadows on the left. Willing to take any possible hiding space, and hearing Holmes' thudding footsteps get closer and closer, Esmé dashed over to and then behind the barrel just as he was coming her way.

Just after she hid, the detective came running to where she once stood, looking left, then right with those searching eyes of his. As she watched with a high level of anxiety, she could feel her pulse pound in her head, but she dared not breathe loudly, lest he hear her. But neither the barrel nor the darkness could hide her forever. She had find some way of escape.

She continued to watch Holmes, and her desired opportunity – even if it was slight – came when she saw him turn to the right, his back to her. Slowly, and holding her breath as she did so, Esmé raised herself up on her feet. In an effort to stay as quiet as possible, she walked on her toes, crouching slightly. She also began to mimic Holmes' steps, biting down on her lip, trying to remain calm, and hoping he would keep looking the other way as she let the light from the nearby streetlamps shine on her.

At one point, he looked over his left shoulder. Esmé shut her eyes and leaned to the right, but apparently he hadn't seen her. When she opened her eyes again, he was again looking away from her. She looked briefly to the right, and upon seeing her way out, began to slowly and carefully walk sideways, keeping her eyes on Holmes the whole time…until her foot slipped in a small puddle of water.

Esmé instantly looked up and, to her eye-widening shock, saw that Holmes had spotted her. She impulsively let out a cry of fright and tried to run off again, but then fell to the hard ground as he grabbed her from behind. Still, she wasn't about to give up. Before he could grab her own wrists, Esmé turned and grabbed his right wrist, followed by his left, and crossed one over the other. Seeing that he had the handcuffs in his right hand, she took hold of them pulled as hard as she could to release them from his grasp, while he pulled equally as hard to keep hold of them. Eventually, she ripped them out of his hand and tossed them aside, and, seeing that he was on one of his knees, kicked him in the thigh.

But even then, she couldn't get away. Just after she took off, Holmes grabbed Esmé by the wrist. Esmé, deciding to finally fight rather than flee, turned around and attempted to shove him off, but Holmes grabbed her other wrist. Once he had her by both, he pulled her up against him. But both continued to struggle against the other, Holmes being determined to keep his grip on her and eventually detain her, while Esmé was equally as determined to get free and eventually get him off her trail.

_"Let go of me!" _she exclaimed.

_"What are you hiding?!"_ Holmes demanded, _"Tell me!"_

_"I can't!"_

_"Why?!"_

_"I have reasons!" _Esmé insisted.

She then looked for any possible way out, when she saw Holmes' hand holding her wrist near her mouth. Without thinking twice, she opened her mouth and bit down. And she didn't stop there. As soon as she felt his hold on her other wrist loosen, she shoved her elbow into his side, and then rammed her foot into his. But even then, she wasn't free. Holmes held her right arm under his and, still holding onto her left wrist, forced her other arm on her back and shoved her to one of the walls. Still, Esmé fought back. She quickly put her right leg next to Holmes' leg, and then used her left to push against the wall, causing her to fall back on Holmes, who still held onto her arm and wrist.

He immediately turned left, forcing Esmé onto her stomach. But she was prepared. While Holmes used his right arm to get the handcuffs, she wrapped her free leg around his, and turned right, forcing Holmes onto his back with her on top of him again. Now that her right arm was free, she once again grabbed hold of the handcuffs Holmes was holding, quickly pulled them out of his hand, and threw them aside like before. Then, seeing that her left arm was no longer behind her back, though Holmes still firmly held her wrist, she gathered all her strength, and rammed her elbow into his upper arm.

To keep him from grabbing her right arm, Esmé hastily rolled off of him to the left. She then got back on her feet as fast as she could, only to see that Holmes was just as fast. He stood just a few feet in front of her, and in that moment Esmé realized that unless she acted fast, she would be leaving this area, but only as a detained criminal.

Deciding to give Holmes a different idea than what she intended, she rushed toward him, making it look like she was attempting to attack him. He took the bait, and reached his arms out to stop her. But right before he could, Esmé ducked, and spun in a full circle before taking his right arm under her left, grabbing his left shoulder, and finally striking her heel against the side of his knee.

As he fell to the ground, Esmé fled from the scene and from Holmes as swiftly as a racehorse, darting around the corner and heading back down the street. For a while, it seemed as though she was home-free, that she had fled the big cat and his accursed handcuffs, when she soon once again heard fast, thudding footsteps not far behind her. Fearing who it was, but wanting to know nonetheless, Esmé turned her head, and saw that Holmes was still chasing her. She grit her teeth and groaned loudly in frustration. Was she ever going to stop him from following her?

She couldn't stop to answer her question. All she could do for now was run, and think, and do both to the best of her ability. She soon spotted a metal barrel, with a big, bright flame burning from inside, and got an idea. Though Esmé knew she might be depriving some less fortunate people of possible warmth, the instinct to flee overwhelmed her. She instantly headed for the barrel, and with both hands pushed it down on the road beside it before taking off again.

She allowed herself to look behind to see if her plan worked, and for a moment, it seemed that it did, as the oil from the barrel spilled onto the ground, causing a wall of fire to form. But then, just as she was about to slow down to rest, Esmé saw Holmes leap through it and tumble to the ground before getting back up and resuming his chase, making her resume running from him.

As she did, and began to feel herself getting slightly tired, Esmé could only wonder how she could outrun a man who was just as determined to complete his mission as she was to complete hers. But of course, only one could be accomplished, and only one could be more determined than the other. Though Holmes may have been the greatest detective in Europe, he wasn't the one on the run for his freedom, and he wasn't the one whose father had gone missing. It was clear to Esmé. She was the one with stronger motivation, and she was the one who had to have her mission seen through to the end.

But outrunning Holmes wouldn't be easy, unless, unless she could weave through a crowded place. But at this hour London was mostly abandoned, save for the people in torn clothes trying to get warm, and a few drunkards here and there. Suddenly, Esmé realized, now that she was heading toward the east end, that there had to be a busy tavern nearby somewhere. She looked for one as she continued to run, until she saw a group of people gathered in front of a building that was dimly lit from inside. It was a slim chance, but it was one she had to take. She'd never been in a tavern before, but hopefully she'd never have to go into one again after this.

Esmé slowed to a stop and looked behind to see if Holmes was still pursuing her. When she saw that he was, she immediately dove to the left, and then darted into the alleyway on the next left, behind the tavern. She quickly opened the door, and the moment she saw Holmes again, she dashed inside. She soon found herself navigating through a sea of people, ignoring shouts of alarm as she spun past a man with a wine bottle, ducked under a tray that was lifted out of her way just in time, and jumped over a man who appeared to be looking for something on the floor, all while shouting, _"Excuse me! Coming through!"_

Just before she got to the front door, she heard the sound of a table falling to the floor, glass breaking, and angry shouts. But Esmé didn't dare look back. She only opened the door, flew out, and shut it again. Once she was outside, she ducked and hurried under the window behind the people in front of the tavern, hoping they were too drunk to notice her, before she continued rushing down the street, ignoring her own, slowly tiring state as she did so.

Soon, she found herself weaving through the alleyways on the side of the road. Though she was relieved to no longer hear running footsteps behind her, a new fear slowly arose like fog on a winter night. What if she couldn't find her way back? What if she got lost?

Perhaps the best thing to do, she reasoned, was to simply stay on the current trail. By running back the way she'd come – while staying the shadows – she'd likely soon come across some familiar landmarks, such as the streetlamps that illuminated the way to the walled-off area. She only hoped there wouldn't be many people out tonight to spot the Masked Gypsy as she made her way through the darkened city of London.

Back at the tavern, most of the patrons turned their heads to look at the man who had attempted to jump past one of the tables near the door, only to have fallen into a wild heap of broken bottles, spilled wine, cards, and scattered money.

"'Ey!" one man shouted in a Cockney accent, "What's goin' on 'ere?!"

Holmes managed to raise himself on his elbows, ignoring the looks of everyone around him, to see a tall, muscular man striding over to him with a face that clearly indicated his need to have his question answered.

Trying to humor him, Holmes replied, "Oh nothing. Just, another evening of, chasing a masked woman in trousers."

"Wait a minute," said one of the men who had sat at the fallen table, "I've seen you before. You're Mr. Sherlock 'Olmes!"

Holmes rolled his eyes, now that his attempt to keep a low profile had failed in front of the people inside this tavern. Still, he nodded and said, "Yes. And I'm dreadfully sorry to have barged through in such a manner."

Without waiting for a reply, he then helped himself up back onto his feet, managing to get his hand cut by one of the glass pieces and nearly slipping back down in some wine before doing so. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he said once he found some stable ground, "I shall be on my way."

Still ignoring those still staring at him with wide-eyed surprise, Holmes made his way out of the tavern and back into the nighttime landscape outside, and wondered where in all of London could that lady in red have run off to. He considered for a moment asking the three men on the right, but they looked too lost in their own world of alcohol to give any real answers. Thus, Holmes was at a dismal loss, not only at where she could have gone, but even more so at who she could possibly be. He couldn't recall another time in his career when a woman, especially one her size, put up such a fight against him, and carried out a chase such as this.

All he could really do was sigh in disappointment, and make his way back to his flat. If Watson were here, then he probably would have caught her. But with things as they were now, there wasn't much more the great detective could do except wait for what the future regarding this oddest of thieves would bring him.

Meanwhile, that most peculiar of thieves had managed to find her way back to the familiar area in which she lived. But her mission wasn't over. She'd decided to go and return the topaz necklace to Lord Hampton and leave the note as she originally planned, and then finally journey back home to the opera house.

She hadn't stopped running ever since she left the tavern, though she was now running more slowly this time. And while she was relieved that she'd finally gotten away from Mr. Holmes, she found herself feeling angry as well. But whether she was angry at him, or at herself, or someone else, she didn't know. This man was supposed to help people like her, help her find her father, and yet here she was, evading him as though she were a criminal.

Fortunately, running seemed to be the perfect way to vent her negative emotions, and she pushed them aside long enough to make a mental note to thank Victor for those lessons in self-defense, though she also knew that good fortune had played a part as well. Eventually, however, all other thoughts except those relating to the mission fled once she found the home of Lord Hampton.

Immediately, Esmé breathed a sigh of both fatigue and relief as she saw that no one was near the house. Still, she looked left and right, just as she did earlier, before hurrying across the street. As quietly as she could, she then walked up the front steps, biting her lip harder with every one until she reached the front door. After unlocking it with her knife, she slowly opened the door. Only one lone candle lit the foyer, allowing her to sneak inside and close the door quietly behind her.

She didn't allow herself to look around, except for a place to put the necklace and the note. She did see what appeared to be a marble column holding a vase in a nearby corner. Deciding it would do, she walked over to it, slowly knelt down, and took out both the necklace – which looked, thankfully, still intact – and the note, placing them at the foot of the column. She breathed out a small sigh now that her task was done, and then turned back and headed for the door in the same manner in which she'd entered.

As soon as Esmé was out again with the door once again closed and locked, she hastily but just as quietly as before traveled down the steps. She then headed to the wall of the building next to Hampton's house, and leaned against it, grateful for any sort of rest she could give herself before returning home, as it quickly became clear to her how tired she was. Her entire body felt warm, she was panting, and she placed both of her hands on her heart to feel it beating like mad. It would be a wonder if she didn't keel over before getting home.

But then, just as she was taking the first step on her journey back to the theater, she felt an arm quickly wrap around her, and a hand clamp down on her mouth. Her eyes instantly widened, but before she could react in any other way, a male voice spoke in her ear in French, _"I wouldn't scream if I were you."_

The man then pulled her a bit deeper into the alleyway before pressing himself against the wall, and pressing her against him. Esmé wondered if she should even try to escape, when the man removed his hand from her mouth, allowing her to ask, _"Who are you?"_

_"Let's just say, we've met before,"_ the man replied. At his answer, Esmé began taking short breaths, and she even wondered if this man was Mr. Holmes. But the next thing she knew, the man was holding something against her neck, something that looked metallic and felt threateningly sharp: a knife. Now she knew for sure he wasn't Holmes.

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the man said, _"I'm not going to kill you, but you are going to listen to me."_

Deciding, at least for now, to stay on his good side, she listened as he spoke.

_"Wellington and I may not know who you are, but try to make off with any more valuables, and you will meet your end at this very blade."_ As if to put emphasis on his last word, he pressed the knife against her neck slightly harder. The emphasis was placed, but not in the way that he imagined. Esmé immediately remembered that she herself had a knife. She reached for it, and the moment her fingers wrapped around the hilt, she pulled it out. And after feeling with her knuckle for his thigh, she then used her knife, as though it were a sharp art pencil, to draw a long scratch around his thigh with one, quick, harsh stroke.

The man instantly let out a prevalent, but small, cry of pain, and just as instantly let Esmé go, allowing her to stand before him, her knife held out with renewed confidence, and anger. Though she couldn't see his face, as it was hidden by the hood of the black cloak he was wearing, she had a rather good idea of who he was.

_"Touch me like that again,"_ she said angrily through her teeth,_ "and you could meet your end at mine!"_

He said nothing, only groaned loudly as he pressed his hands to his leg wound. Esmé then sheathed her knife again, and she hurried away from the madman, and the all too ominous air that seemed to emanate from him. While she was more eager now than ever to get home, her heart beat nervously as the images of what had happened tonight appeared over and over again in her mind. She also thought of just how many enemies she'd managed to make in just three days. The police, Lord Wellington, and even Sherlock Holmes. Who was to say the whole world wouldn't soon be against her?

But even so, despite all the trouble she'd managed to land in, she would get out of it. She had to, and she was certain she would.

* * *

_Reviews would be appreciated._


	8. Complicated Charade

_Sorry for the long wait. :)_

* * *

**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Chapter 7 – Complicated Charade

As Esmé made her way back into the theater by the usual entrance on the side, she was glad to finally be home, but it soon became clear to her that it wasn't the home she remembered leaving behind. For some reason, time seemed as though it had slowed considerably, and a fast but gentle wind seemed to blow down onto her as she walked up the steps. Even so, she managed her way up the short stairs and opened the door. But once she did, the air instantly felt still, and cold, and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Still, though she had the immense feeling that something was wrong, her need to know exactly what it was urged her forward inside.

She eventually found her way to the stage, which felt like being inside a dark cave, with the walls closing in around her. She then tried to move on, but her feet were literally stuck to the ground. It wasn't as though she didn't want to move. She tried again and again to lift one foot, then the other, but both were fused to the wooden floor. Esmé wondered wildly what was happening, when the room was suddenly lit.

All across the front border of the stage, the candles were lit one by one until each had a bright flame burning. And before she knew it, the theater was lit along with them. She slowly looked around and found – to her equally as slowly growing dismay – that it was empty, devoid of anyone besides her. Though it hadn't worked before, Esmé tried moving her feet again. To her newfound relief, this time she was able to lift both her feet, and upon realizing she could, she hurried off to the left wing of the stage.

But before she could completely flee into the safety of the shadows, a menacing, black silhouette reached out toward her, a knife in its hand, the silver blade sharp and ready to strike. Esmé immediately gasped loudly and took two steps – then three – back in alarm. Not knowing where else to go, but wishing to get away nonetheless, she quickly spun around and hurried off in the opposite direction.

However, once she reached the center of the stage, she merely blinked once before seeing a row of policemen appear as if out of thin air in front of her, causing her to freeze in her tracks. The one closest to her blew loudly the whistle in his hand and quickly reached out a hand to grab her, but Esmé even more quickly darted past him, missing his hand by merely a few short but fortunate centimeters.

With nowhere else to flee to, she took her last chance and hurried over to the right wing of the stage, desperate to elude those behind her. For a brief moment, it seemed as though she would, when suddenly, another silhouette appeared in front of her before she could dive into the darkness. But rather than a knife, in his hand he carried a pair of handcuffs. Even before he came completely out of the shadows, Esmé could feel her heart leap out of her chest when she saw his face. Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

She hastily backed away from him, but when she looked over her shoulder, the policemen and the other silhouette stood where they originally were. Suddenly, Esmé missed a step, and she ended up tripping and falling backward onto the wooden floor. Though all of this had happened in just a few short minutes, it felt as if time had slowed while it happened. But what didn't slow down was Esmé's heartbeat. All she knew was that she was now at the mercy of those who wanted her captured, or worse…

All of them – the silhouette, the police, and Holmes – encircled her, and then slowly, ever so slowly, reached a hand out toward her. All Esmé could think to do was shut her eyes and put her hands in front of her face – which she discovered to her fright, upon touching it, was bare, revealing her identity to them all. But just when she thought she couldn't bear much more, she heard Holmes' voice call out her name. Yet, to her surprise, he called it out not in anger, but, rather inexplicably, in concern.

"Esmé?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Suddenly, she heard her name again being called, but in a much different voice from Holmes'. Not only was it feminine, but it was one she knew well. "Esmé? Are you awake?"

It was only then that Esmé realized she wasn't lying on the wooden floor of the stage, but rather on a much more familiar, and comforting, surface: that of her bed. However, her eyes, as she had previously thought, were closed. At last, having found a way to escape this horrid scene, she slowly forced her eyes open, and saw – to her immediate and heartfelt relief – that she was not in the main part of the house, but in the room that she and Josette shared. The closet and the vanity stood where they always did, but Josette's bed was unoccupied and had already been made. Esmé then looked toward the closed door, and, having remembered hearing her cousin's voice, realized she may be behind it.

She quickly sat up, not bothering to rub her eyes or stretch, and while hugging her knees to her chest, she cleared her throat and called back, "Come in."

The door at first opened only slightly, allowing Esmé to see Josette's familiar face, before she opened it all the way and entered the room. "You are awake!" she exclaimed, "Wonderful!" But then, whatever smile she had quickly faded into a frown. "Are you sick?"

"What do you mean?" Esmé asked.

"Your face is all red," Josette explained as she walked over to her, "And you look as though you've been sweating." She then gently touched Esmé's forehead, allowing Esmé to realize that she was right. Her face did feel rather warm and slightly damp.

"Do you have a fever?" Josette asked.

Trying to divert attention away from herself, Esmé asked, "What time is it?"

"Just after ten-thirty," Josette replied, "But you haven't answered my question."

"I don't know," Esmé replied, "I'm not sure. I don't feel ill. But, I did have a bad dream."

"What about?" Josette asked, her eyebrows raised and her tone concerned.

For a moment, Esmé didn't know what to say. Part of her wanted to tell her cousin, as they used to often tell each other about their bad dreams. Yet, another part of her wanted to refuse, thinking she would only worry Josette even further, especially if she mentioned the silhouetted figure carrying the knife.

She eventually shook her head and replied in a grim voice, "I'd rather not say."

Josette apparently decided to leave it at that, because she then asked, "Would you like me to make you some tea?"

Esmé slowly raised her head, realizing just now how thirsty she felt. Trying to smile, she nodded and replied, "I suppose so."

She then watched as Josette left, leaving her once again alone in their room, until Esmé heard another voice that she recognized. "Oh. There you are." She immediately turned and her eyes widened with shock when she saw that Victor was standing in the open doorway, causing her to gasp and pull her blankets up to her chest to keep him from seeing her in her nightgown.

"Victor!" she almost yelled at him, "For heaven's sake don't scare me like that!"

Victor only pressed his lips together and promptly left her sight. Though he didn't walk away, Esmé heard him say in the most sarcastic of tones, "Oh _merci beaucoup_ for your concern cousin!"

She felt his frustration, but Esmé could only roll her eyes at him. Deciding, however, to take advantage of the fact that he was gone, she quickly leaped out of bed, walked over to the door and closed it, and began preparing herself for the day as she usually did. She sat down at the vanity, poured water into the bowl sitting at the side, and proceeded to wash her face. Once she finished, she then brushed her long hair and styled it. Finally, she got out and changed into one of her dresses, and was lacing her boots when she suddenly heard a knock on the door.

"Your tea Esmé!" It was Josette. Esmé breathed an exasperated sigh before she proceeded to the door and opened it. There stood her cousin holding a small tray with three filled cups, and the sight of the steam emanating from the hot liquid caused her to feel even more thirsty. Josette made her way in, followed by Victor, and together the three sat in a circle, a cup for each of them in their hands. Esmé couldn't help but close her eyes as she took the first sip, savoring the excellent and satisfying taste. It had felt so long since she had a cup of tea that tasted so good.

"I must admit sister, this is delicious," Victor said.

"I agree," Esmé nodded, "_Merci beaucoup_ Josette."

"You're welcome," Josette smiled. She then saw the slight but prevalent look of trouble on Esmé's face, and her smile faded. "Are you sure you don't want to tell me about your dream?"

Esmé let out a frustrated sigh and replied, "I said no."

Josette only raised her eyebrows in response, making Esmé sigh again, this time in apology. She didn't mean to sound so rude, but she didn't like it when people pressed her like that. That dream, though, had felt as though it actually happened. She'd had dreams that felt so before, but none of them haunted her like this one did. For a moment, she allowed herself to silently ask if it really did occur, when common sense tugged her out of it. No. It was nothing more than a dream. But all that had happened the night before: taking the necklace, fleeing Mr. Holmes, and encountering that man with a knife, that was real. She was certain of that.

_"Très bien,"_ Josette said, "but you are going to tell me what happened last night."

Though she gave a small sigh, Esmé knew that she couldn't deny her cousin no matter how much she wished. She proceeded to tell both her and Victor of her most recent escapade: how she managed to locate where Wellington was keeping the stolen jewels and take them, how she managed to fight off and flee from Mr. Holmes – which Victor had to hear twice to make sure he wasn't hearing things – and how she managed to escape him by going through a tavern and then return the jewels to their rightful owner. She was debating all the while whether to tell them of the man with a knife, when Josette shook her head and decided to voice her strong disapproval.

"That's it," she said, "I can't stay silent anymore. This is getting far too out of hand."

"What are you talking about?" Esmé asked, though she had a feeling she knew what the answer was going to be.

"I'm talking about you going out night after night into the streets!" Josette exclaimed as she stood up and then put down her tea. She then looked down at Esmé with the most serious of faces, her hands on her hips. "How do you think I feel about you doing this? If it isn't one danger, it's another!"

Though she understood her concern, Esmé could feel herself getting just as frustrated. She put her tea aside and then stood up in front of Josette, her fists on either side.

"Do you think I planned for all of this to happen?" she asked.

"Well you obviously had a plan the first time around," Josette replied, "Is this a part of it? Or are you merely improvising?"

"Josette, you know I had no intention of being framed this way!" Esmé slightly raised her voice, "And I greatly appreciate your concern, but I have to do something to get out of it!"

"Oh and this is it?!" Josette asked, "By putting on a mask and facing danger?! Your luck is going to eventually run out Esmé! Sooner or later you're going to get hurt!"

She then donned a look of intense thought, and neither Esmé nor Victor could tell exactly what she was thinking, until she finally said, "You know, I should simply go to Mr. Holmes or the constable myself and turn you in!"

At hearing those words, and believing she really did hear them from her own cousin, Esmé showed her disbelief in a short but audible gasp. Trying her best to keep herself from shouting, she exclaimed, "You wouldn't!"

Deciding to voice his own opinion, Victor put aside his tea and stood up as well. "Josette, you're not really thinking about doing that? I mean, the streets may be bad but, it could be even worse for her if she's put in prison."

"Someone has to do something about this madness!" Josette exclaimed, "I'd rather take the lesser of the two evils if it means keeping Esmé safe."

"You're the one who's mad Josette!" Esmé raised her voice again.

Josette turned to her, her eyes flaring. "Don't talk about me that way!"

"And that's another thing," Esmé said, "I'm not an imbecile. And if I may remind you, you're not much older than us, so don't even think for one moment that you can simply tell us what to do, especially me!"

"Well someone has to look out for you Esmé!" Josette nearly shouted, "And who's going to since your father is missing and your mother is dead!"

Once the words had escaped her, silence immediately passed between all three, Esmé in particular. She merely looked at her cousin with a blank face that slowly changed into one of sincere hurt. She felt her heart leap to her throat for a moment; she couldn't believe that Josette, of all people, would say such heartless words, especially at such a difficult time. Her mouth fell open, and she feared she would cry. Though it looked as though Josette was realizing the error of her mistake, one thing became clear to Esmé: she had to leave, go somewhere, anywhere but here.

As Josette and Victor watched, she hurried over to the closet and hastily pulled out her gloves, coat, and black scarf.

"Esmé, where are you going?" Victor asked. She gave no reply.

"Esmé, wait," Josette pleaded, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

But she didn't listen to her. Before Josette could finish, Esmé traveled out of the door and down the hallway, and then made her way down the stairs as fast as she could. She pulled her gloves on, buttoned up her coat, and wrapped her scarf around her head as she went through the theater. Before long, she found the door that led to the outside, and without thinking twice, she hastened through it, and then out into the still cold early spring air.

Not wishing to be noticed by anyone, not even a passing glance, Esmé wrapped her scarf further around her face, leaving only her eyes visible, and she regretted that it was so. While she obviously needed to see, whenever she felt the need to cry, she did it alone, and she liked it that way. And yet, as much as she wished to, some invisible and unnamed force kept her tears from springing forth, as if her body was telling her that now wasn't the right time to do so. Still, she wanted sympathy from no one, not that anyone she knew of would give it to her. It was just as she'd feared. Now her own family was against her too. It made her angry, sad, and hurt in a way she didn't even know existed. Even as she was walking through the city, with its ever-present – and currently appropriate – sense of grim and gray all around her, she didn't know what to do.

For a brief moment, Esmé thought of running away, to try and find her father on her own. But that idea was quickly crossed out. Not only did she have no money (and she wanted to kick herself for forgetting to take some), but she still had no idea where her father was, or what might have happened to him. It pained her not knowing either, and she feared she would lose her mind.

No, she couldn't allow that to happen. Something had to be done, or else she would be facing the police, and metal bars, and everything would be ruined. Esmé recalled the night before, the touch of the sharp metal of the knife against her throat, and the threatening hold of the cloaked man, and she found something, or rather someone, to direct her anger towards. She didn't care that she had been warned. She knew now more than ever that Wellington had to be stopped, and when he was, her name would be cleared and the real thief would be behind those bars that seemed to be looming over her head. She was going to see to it that both came to be, and no one would stop her.

But how? How was she going to get one more step ahead of both Wellington and Holmes? If she acted tonight, both would likely be waiting for her. Not only that, but Wellington might have also moved the jewels. Though where else he could possibly hide them even more cleverly than before, she didn't know. In an effort to come up with a good idea, Esmé closed her eyes for a brief moment and forced herself to calm down. She found herself recalling that conversation between Wellington and Felix she heard only a few nights ago, almost hearing their voices again as she did so, when her eyes flew open again. Perhaps there was something she could do. But in order for it to work, she needed to prepare, and that meant going to Wellington's residence.

Esmé wove through the streets of London, which she had previously been wandering aimlessly through, not caring where she went. But now she had somewhere to go, and she hoped she would find it quickly. She also kept a watchful vigil through her scarf, looking for even the slightest hint of a face that she was not at all keen on seeing. Though she desperately hoped her scarf would be enough to keep her identity hidden, she also knew that Holmes, like her, never forgot a face after observing one. And she was clearly under his current observation as of late.

Still, she kept to her vow that nothing was going to stop her from succeeding in her quest. Esmé continued on her way, retaining her intensifying focus, until she finally caught sight of Wellington's house across the street. For a moment, she stopped at and pressed herself against the edge of the corner of the building, allowing herself to observe the house. When she saw that the coast was most likely clear, she walked on, but not toward it.

Instead, she headed left, away from the house. She was about three buildings down when she stopped again and turned around. She then looked around carefully but quickly to make sure no one – especially a pair of suspicious, watchful brown eyes – was looking, before she turned and disappeared in between the buildings, out of anyone's sight. But even then, Esmé remained cautious. Though no one was there to see her, she slowly and quietly walked behind the buildings and back down the way she originally came. Her eyes focused on the back door of Wellington's house, wondering if someone would come through it and spot her. Once she reached the end of the building next door to Wellington's, she again pressed herself against one of the corners, and watched for a few brief moments before she was sure it was safe to pass by.

Holding her breath the entire time she snuck past it, Esmé only let it out in a small sigh of relief once she was safe. She then looked to the right, and then allowed her gaze to travel upward, and let a small smile form on her face behind her scarf. As she'd hoped, not only was there a window on the side of the house for the first floor, but there was also one for the second and third floors as well. She'd figured that there would likely be people inside the basement cellar tonight, so these windows would provide her with a second plan. And even better, they were all slightly open, as was the habit of the middle and higher classes in both cold and warm weather.

But then came the matter of which window to go through. The one for the first floor went into the dining room, and she obviously did not want to go through that one. But if she was going to get inside the building through either one of the other windows, she would have to bring rope or some other device to help her climb. If that had to be the case, then she would have to go through the one for the second floor. Though the one for the third was conveniently located next to where the jewels were kept, she wasn't about to do anything unnecessary, lest she hurt herself.

Now that her mind had been made up, Esmé proceeded down the side of Wellington's house, hoping no one would notice a girl of her age and class coming out of an alleyway in broad daylight. But she had little to no way of knowing that another person was making his way out the front door and down the front steps of the same house.

Sherlock Holmes let out a brief sigh as he passed through the entrance to Wellington's house, but in no way did he allow himself to yawn even though he'd gotten only a few hours of sleep the night before. He'd been awake since about four-thirty in the morning, half-mad after failing to catch a red sprite who somehow managed to elude him and fight him off. Though he admitted it to no one, he was at his wits' end of trying to piece together clues as to who this most mysterious of women could be, and how she managed to escape him. But he wasn't about to give up. He'd come to meet with Wellington earlier that morning, both to express his apologies at failing to capture this thief and to assure him that he would not fail again. Wellington was obviously very concerned. Tonight was to be a very important night, and if this "Masked Gypsy" had plans to strike the same place a third time in a row, well, Holmes was going to be there too.

But something about Wellington struck him as odd. He remembered watching the thief take more jewels the night before, specifically where she'd found them. He hadn't even known they were kept there. If Wellington was so concerned about his jewels, why did he not tell Holmes beforehand where he'd kept those? _Perhaps he'd forgotten_, Holmes thought. But that was unlikely. Still, a thief was a thief, and Holmes was now the most determined he'd been so far on this case.

But so lost was Holmes in his investigative focus as he traveled down the front steps, that he let out a gasp of surprise when he saw a figure about to run into him. The person gasped as well, their eyes widened, and then, they ducked and quickly – yet also as though in slowed-down time – spun out of his way just as they were about to hit him, in a way that was almost identical to a certain move he'd seen the night before.

So bizarre was that one moment, that Holmes couldn't help but stop and stare after the person. It appeared to be a young woman, dressed in a plain day dress, coat, and black scarf wrapped around her head. Though she walked on away from him, and rather briskly he noticed, she turned her head around slightly toward him. Her lower face was hidden by the scarf, and she turned her head around again before he could get a good look at her. But nonetheless, it wasn't only her swift dodging of him that struck Holmes as familiar.

He stood where he was and continued to watch as she walked away from Wellington's house. When he saw that she was going across the road, he made his way toward her, though still trying to keep somewhat of a distance. He followed her across the street – his eyes watching her every move with an intense, focused gaze – and waited until he himself was on the other side before deciding to call out to her.

"Madam," he said in a non-accusatory tone, "may I have a word with you?"

The woman in response turned her head around like before, her full profile still hidden from him behind the scarf. But this time, she walked more hastily, and then, to Holmes' dismay, she turned back around and gathered her skirt in her right hand before allowing her gait to break into a run.

"Madam, wait!" Holmes impulsively called out. But she ignored him and went on ahead, not looking back even once. Not in the mood to let a possibly vital clue slip through his fingers, Holmes braced himself and took off after her.

As she ran down the street, and found herself almost reliving last night's chase, it was all Esmé could do to keep herself from cursing her bad luck audibly. Had he recognized her? Perhaps, perhaps not. And why did she dodge him like she did? She reasoned that it was out of sheer instinct. But whatever the answer to either question, just when she thought her day might have been made a little bit brighter, another dark cloud had to cover the sun. While her right hand held her skirt, she held onto her scarf with her left hand, keeping it across her face so that no one would be able to identify her to Mr. Holmes. She wished she were in her trousers now, so she could run faster than this confounded dress would allow, but that didn't stop her from running as fast as she possibly could.

But where could she go? And how was she going to lose him this time? Esmé could see by the reactions of the people she passed that she was attracting a considerable amount of attention, and she didn't know whether to use that to her advantage or to count it as a disadvantage. Suddenly, she caught with her eye what appeared to be an alleyway. Though she didn't have her knife with her to fend off ruffians, she nonetheless took the chance to elude Holmes and headed for it.

Esmé dove past a startled and well-dressed couple, and into the alleyway. Pressing herself against the wall near the corner, she turned around only slightly to see if Holmes was still following her. When she saw, to her dismay, that he was, she took off once more and ran further down the alleyway. She did encounter two of perhaps the dirtiest looking people she'd ever seen – one even called out to her in a rather indecent manner – but she ignored them, not in the mood to let anything stand in her way.

She darted out of the alleyway, but still, Holmes followed her. As she traveled further and further through London, Esmé knew only that unless she could get him off her trail soon, all that she had done would prove meaningless. She darted past people in her way, ran around corners, but neither seemed to work. She looked around as she ran, desperate for even the slightest way out, when she saw a crowd of people gathering outside what appeared to be a public building. Immediately, an idea came to mind, one she did not doubt would work.

She headed in the direction of the crowd, unwrapped her scarf, reluctantly revealing her face, and let out a loud, frightened scream. Just as she thought, she grabbed almost everyone's attention. Without turning her head, she then pointed back at Mr. Holmes and, in another attempt to hide her identity, shouted in a British accent, "Stop him! That man wants me!"

Though true in it's meaning, Esmé could tell by the looks of fright and gasps of shock that instantly came from most of the crowd that they thought she meant something else, exactly as she wanted. Without stopping, she ran past the crowd, and heard the footsteps that previously pursued her slow down as well as angry shouts from both the men and women. Again, she wrapped her scarf around her face, and ran even faster than before, knowing that it wouldn't be long before Mr. Holmes would be on her trail again.

Meanwhile, outside in front of a familiar tea shop, a brother and sister stood, looking around in all directions for their cousin. They had decided not long after she left to go and search for her, and both wondered wildly where she could possibly be.

Victor turned his eyes, now weary from near exhaustive searching, to his sister. "You simply had to set her off like that. And you tell _me_ to think before I act."

Josette frowned at him before he even finished. "I'm not in the mood Victor," she said in a stern tone.

"Then where do you think she could have gone?" he asked.

Immediately, Josette's frown changed from one of frustration to one of sadness. She couldn't help but stare out at the streets of London, watching the people and the cabs go by, Victor's question repeating in her mind, before she finally replied, "I don't know. I suppose our best hope is to go back home and wait."

But suddenly, just as she was turning to go, Victor exclaimed, "Wait, look! I think that's her!"

Josette instantly turned back around, looked to where he was pointing, and her eyebrows rose in relief to see a young woman dashing across the street toward them, wearing a scarf she'd recognize anywhere. But her frown remained, as she immediately realized something was wrong.

Once she saw her cousins, Esmé didn't know whether to be relieved or alarmed. Part of her wanted to flee while another part wanted to seek their assistance. But they were the only possible allies she had left, so she made the quick choice to hurry across the street toward them.

She unwrapped her scarf, which by then had begun to stick to her sweating face, and immediately made known her plight. "Help me! He's after me!"

"Who's after you?" Victor asked.

"Mr. Holmes!" Esmé almost whined, wanting to ask who else could it possibly be, "He saw me, and I think he knows!" She then turned to Josette, her own anxious eyes meeting her somewhat concerned ones, and she could only guess what she would do. She'd already made clear the option of turning her in. Would she be so bold as to do it here and now?

"Josette, please," she pleaded, "I need your help!"

"Go!" Victor suddenly exclaimed as he took her by the arm. Though gentle, he hastened her over to the corner of the shop, saying, "You can hide between the buildings over here. We'll distract him!" He then let her go and gave her a slight push, urging her toward the area he pointed out. Esmé did so and, though she didn't look back, found herself remembering with surprise how serious her cousin could be.

But as she sat and hid behind a barrel between the buildings, her back firmly against the wall and her scarf once again wrapped around her face, she didn't even allow herself to breathe loudly, so focused on what was happening not much further away from her was she.

Before long, she heard running footsteps that quickly slowed to a stop, and then, a voice that she now knew well. "Pardon me," he said, "have either of you seen a peculiar young woman wearing a black scarf?"

Victor replied first. "Uh, what are you talking about, Sir?"

Holmes spoke again. "Well, for some reason it seems like I keep, missing her." He then changed his tone of voice to one of urgency. "Listen, I need to find her. It's very important."

Silence immediately reached Esmé's ears for a brief, yet somehow long moment, during which she could almost feel her heart stop. Suddenly, she heard the dreaded sound of footsteps coming her way, footsteps intent on finding her, no matter what she did or where she hid, when a voice suddenly spoke up.

"Oh, I think I know who you mean." Hearing that and the footsteps ceasing made Esmé almost gasp. It was Josette, and she found herself listening as she spoke further. "Oh yes, the poor lass is causing such an uproar. She probably went that way. If you hurry, you might catch her."

And soon, as if in answer to her innermost wishes, she heard Holmes say in reply, "Thank you Madam." She then allowed her head to lean forward and turn to the right, and watched as Mr. Holmes ran away from her direction, and across the street toward an alleyway. She immediately looked away again and leaned back as she saw him stop and turn around. Again, she sat completely still, closed her eyes, and bit her lip, hoping he would go away completely, when she felt someone grab her arm. Her eyes immediately flew open as she let out a gasp, but once she was pulled up, she was relieved to find that it was Victor, who was desperately shushing her.

"We need to go now!" he said quietly to her.

"Keep your scarf around your face," Josette said just as softly but sternly.

Esmé only nodded, and the two led her out from in between the buildings and into the open street again. The three then hurried toward and around the corner of the shop, in the opposite direction Holmes went, and ran as fast as they could on the path that would lead them back home, none of them looking back or even speaking.

None of them slowed down even a bit, especially when they caught sight of the opera house. Instead, they ran even faster, and then went for the usual entrance on the side of the building. Once they were inside, they hurried up the steps, and as soon as they were inside the main theater, Josette made sure Victor and Esmé were safely inside before using what was possibly her last big amount of strength to close the door and lock it. It was only then that all of them breathed a sigh of relief, particularly Esmé, who began panting, as she had to run at least twice as hard as her cousins just to make it back.

"Well, what a morning this has been," Victor then said.

Esmé sighed as she turned to face her cousins again, smirking slightly when she saw that they looked just about as flushed as she certainly had to be. "_Merci_, both of you," she said, "I must admit, I did not think you would help me."

"What are cousins for?" Victor asked affectionately.

Esmé let her smirk return for only a brief moment before turning to Josette. But before she could speak, Josette sighed and spoke in her stead. "Esmé, I really am sorry," she said, sincerity in her voice as well as on her face, "I didn't mean to upset you. I mean, I know I can get angry, I just…"

"I know," Esmé nodded, "I understand. You don't want anything bad to happen to me."

"But…where have you been?" Josette finally asked once she'd found the right words, "Where did you go?"

"I went for a walk," Esmé replied. She then spoke further when Josette raised a skeptical eyebrow, "To Lord Wellington's house."

Josette frowned, and Esmé waited for an explosive reaction. But it never came. Instead, Josette merely asked, "So you intend to go for a third time?"

Esmé frowned back, alarmed at how calm her cousin was, but she nodded and replied, "I do. He still has Lord Loxley's gems." She then looked at Victor, who looked about as surprised as she. He only shrugged his shoulders before Esmé looked back at Josette. Curiosity begged her to ask, "And why aren't you trying to stop me?"

"Well, I had an idea that you might have gone there," Josette replied, "and I've been thinking just now." She then looked her sternly in the eye, knowing she might object to what she was about to propose. "Since I'm so concerned for your safety, and since I made the mistake of pouring gas on the fire, I've decided that if you are going there again, then I'm going with you."

Esmé instantly raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You are?" she asked, "You mean, you actually want to?"

"Yes," Josette nodded, giving only a small smile, "In fact, Victor would like to go to."

"I would?" Victor asked. But then, at both his sister's silent urging and from his own sense of duty, he nodded to Esmé. "Yes I would. She's not the only one who's concerned."

Both he and Josette then looked at Esmé with curious faces, awaiting her response while she silently considered their offer. For a moment, she thought at first to say no, thinking of the trouble they could all get into at once and the dangers they would face, particularly one that she was currently keeping to herself. But as she further thought this through, remembering the high windows, and the fact that tonight was to be a very important one for Lord Wellington, she realized that she might need their help after all. As for that madman with a knife, she would make sure no harm would come to her or her cousins.

She forced a small smile on her face. "If this had been like the previous nights, I probably would have refused," she said, "But you may have offered your help at just the right time."

"What do you mean?" Victor asked.

"During my first visit, I overheard Wellington and Felix talking," Esmé explained, "and I heard Wellington say that he was holding a party in only three days."

"But it's been three days since then," Josette spoke up.

"_Exactement_," Esmé replied, "He's holding the party tonight. The only question is how to get in."

"You can't get in like you did before?" Victor asked.

"No," Esmé sadly shook her head, "I entered through the cellar door at the back of the house, and since there's going to be a party tonight, it's likely to be occupied, and I don't intend to cause an uproar."

"Then that would leave only the second or third floor windows," Victor reasoned, "since you obviously can't enter through the front or on the first floor."

"You might," Josette countered, "In fact, we all might."

Both Esmé and Victor gave her looks of confusion, but she only smiled and nodded, "_Oui_, I have an idea. It's far-fetched, but I have a feeling it will work."

Esmé and Victor then changed their expressions to ones of intrigue and anticipation at what the most cautious of them had come up with. "We're listening," Victor said.

"What if we snuck into the party as members of the upper class?" Josette asked, her smile small but her eyes wide.

Once Esmé heard her, she was confused at first, until realization slowly crept up on her, causing her to ask, "You mean, go to the party in elaborate dress?"

"Why not?" Josette asked, "If Mr. Sherlock Holmes can disguise himself, then so can we."

Suddenly, an objection was heard from none other than Victor. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, "No, no, no! You are not dressing me up like a dandy!"

"Oh come now brother," Josette implored him, "It's only for tonight. Besides, I'm sure there will be plenty of lovely young ladies of the upper class for you to meet."

Josette's shot at him seemed to hit its mark, for Victor quickly began reconsidering. "I do have a liking for girls of the upper class," he said, but still he had some doubts. Even so, it wasn't long before he made his final decision known. "_Très bien_, I'll do it. But just for tonight. And I'm doing it more for you two than the ladies."

"Excellent," Esmé couldn't help but smile. She'd been thinking while Victor did, and while she agreed with Josette that this idea did seem somewhat difficult, she realized that her cousin may have hit a mark she couldn't see at first. Perhaps they would be able to pull this through, with much careful planning of course.

"All are agreed then?" Josette asked.

_"Oui,"_ Esmé and Victor both nodded.

"Then it's settled!" Josette declared happily.

"And I suggest we get to work quickly," Esmé then said, "We've less than twelve hours and can't afford to waste time."

Both her cousins agreed, and all three immediately got to work planning for the momentous occasion the evening would bring.

Later, in another area in London, if one was close enough, one might have been able to hear the rather angry shouts of a certain doctor inside his office.

"No, no!" he shouted at his friend, "Absolutely not! I won't do it Holmes! I refuse!"

"May I remind you Watson that I am the detective," Holmes pressed him. He'd come in only recently, after having failed to find the woman in the black scarf, despite the directions he'd been given. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he'd say that he'd been tricked. But both the woman and those that he'd met on that street were long gone. However, something also told him that that near run-in at Wellington's home wasn't mere coincidence. If the Masked Gypsy was indeed going to strike again tonight, not only was he going to be there, but he was definitely going to need help, and he was going to drag Watson to the party kicking and screaming if he had to.

"And may I remind you Holmes that I am no longer your dog!" Watson retorted.

Holmes raised his eyebrows at his friend's boldness. "Come now Watson, not in front of your dog," he said, referring to Gladstone who'd perked his head up.

But Watson ignored both. "Why can't you simply try to catch this woman on your own?" he asked, "It can't be that hard."

"I thought so as well at first," Holmes agreed, "But this one may be more difficult than I thought. And, seeing as how you're otherwise not engaged for the evening, and that you're the only one I can turn to for assistance…"

"I told you already Holmes," Watson interrupted him, "The answer is no. Mary's caught a cold and I do not intend to leave her side."

"Then, you aren't free for this evening?" Holmes asked.

"I'm afraid not," Watson frowned, "You're going to have to solve this case on your own."

Holmes could only close his eyes and let out a sigh of frustration. He admired Watson for wanting to stay with his wife, but if he didn't catch this thief soon… There was no avoiding it. Either Watson was going to help him on this case or he was going to strike at him.

"Watson," he said calmly, "you know I've done my best to hold up my end of the bargain. It's been months since we've strangled Moriarty's hold on the criminal underworld."

"And you coerced me into it," Watson noted sarcastically.

"Those men were not there for you, I told you!" Holmes insisted. He then resorted back to being as calm and serious as possible. "And had I not been there then, you would not be here today."

"There he goes again," Watson muttered.

"This thief is armed," Holmes continued, ignoring him, "And what if I should get so unfortunate as to be attacked by her, and you were not there to stop her? What would you do then?"

"You're trying to guilt me into it," Watson affirmed, "It's not going to work."

"I'm only asking for one night, that's all," Holmes said, still remaining collected but in fact ready to throw his hands to the air, "I'm only asking for assistance in finding her and bringing her into custody."

For a moment, Watson remained silent, his back turned to Holmes, who didn't know how to react to the tension growing between them. But he was going to get an answer, and he was going to get it soon. And he did. Watson slowly turned back around to face his colleague, his lips pressed together in aggravation.

"You're not going to stop persisting are you?" he asked.

"No," Holmes replied bluntly.

"Well then, considering that, your argumentation, and that I can see that you've been keeping to your word…I suppose it can't hurt to give you a hand."

Holmes couldn't help but smile, if only briefly. "Watson you really are the best of companions."

"But just for tonight," Watson reminded him, "Remember that. If something goes wrong, you're on your own."

"Oh nothing is going to go wrong, my good man," Holmes said. His thoughtful gaze then drifted from Watson's office to beyond the window at the streets outside, his eyes narrowing slightly like the cat on the prowl he was becoming lately. "_Nothing_ is going to go wrong if I can help it."

* * *

_Reviews would be appreciated._


	9. Dear Ophelia

**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Chapter 8 – Dear Ophelia

Meanwhile, at the theater, Esmé, Josette, and Victor planned and prepared the best they all possibly could, combining their ideas and efforts until they were sure they had a legitimate plan, which seemed at once simple yet complicated. Just after eight o' clock, they would sneak out of the theater and get a cab to an address near Wellington's. They weren't actually going to go to the front, as none of them had an invitation. Instead, they would sneak from behind the house and then make their way through the window on the first floor. From there, they would proceed to the front of the building and intermingle for a time so as to blend in.

But before the night would get too old, Esmé would send out a signal to her cousins, after which Josette would feign gasping for air, giving Esmé time to get away from the crowd and upstairs to the room where the jewels were kept. She would then remove her elaborate clothing to reveal the Masked Gypsy's clothes, and would make off with the jewels, which would take at least five minutes. After which, Victor would take his sister to a "hospital," but they would really take a cab to the East End, where they would meet Esmé and then take the jewels to Lord Loxley's house, while Esmé would lead Holmes away from them should he follow her.

It was a difficult plan, but of course its real difficulty would be proved once they played it out. From the time they had an idea of what they were going to do from beginning to end, they set about working on their appearances for tonight, which would be hard at some points yet somewhat easy at others. Even so, since they were going to face a man whose suspicions on them were high, not even the slightest detail could be overlooked.

Clothes weren't that much of a problem. In fact, just a few months back, they'd gotten what were perhaps their first evening clothes, as they and Esmé's father had been invited to a grand party much like the one they knew Wellington would hold. As a ballet master with considerable popularity, Esmé's father had gone to a few of these already, but this had been the first one where all three were old enough to attend one with him. However, only Victor ended up going, as Esmé and Josette – the "lucky creatures" as he'd called them at the time – were both sick. Thus, he had to endure the night alone with impatience that would rival that of a Thoroughbred colt.

But tonight, his impatience would be of a different sort, at least that was what the girls hoped for. Fortunately, he hadn't burned the suit he'd gotten since then. And Josette had assured him he'd look very handsome once he was in it.

As for Esmé and Josette, they couldn't wait to get into their evening gowns. And they wouldn't have to wear corsets either! What neither girls appreciated about their previous invitation were the fittings they had to get for those ghastly contraptions before they could go. Even if the situation did call for it, since they were both girls of the upper middle class, both made a vow since to never wear them again. And tonight, they intended to keep it. Besides, since both were dancers, it was natural for them to keep their backs straight and shoulders down.

But then came the matter of their faces, which they intended to alter as much as possible. It wouldn't be so difficult for Victor. All he would have to do is put on a wig and a fake moustache or beard. But for the girls, it was going to be slightly harder, perhaps even harder than they expected. Growing up in the theater, Esmé and Josette had learned about stage makeup, and even learned to apply it themselves. Often they'd complain about each other's styles, Esmé's being "too bold" while Josette's was "too demure." That being said, neither could afford to argue today.

_If only it were a masquerade ball_, Esmé wished. But it was not to be. She would have to go bare-faced; and unless both could find a way to completely alter their likenesses, Mr. Holmes would recognize them immediately. Fortunately though, it wasn't long before Josette remembered another, lesser known appliance of stage makeup. They were small inserts that one could put inside the cheeks and nose to slightly change the shape of the face, and they were easy to remove as well. They also decided to put powder on their necks and faces, since their skin was slightly more tan than what was required of upper class ladies, especially Esmé. And of course, the rest would take its fair share of time as well.

All though the afternoon the three worked on their disguises, wanting to be certain to get them absolutely right, down to the last ribbon. Not even the slightest detail could be overlooked. It wasn't easy, but by the time evening came, their hard work received a rather generous reward.

Esmé and Josette stood together in the room they shared, both looking at themselves in their mirror, specifically the results of their tireless efforts. And indeed, they were fairly surprised. Josette wore a gown of ivory-white while Esmé wore one of dark-teal. The skirts stretched to the floor and had a tournure in the back. Both skirts had embroidered patterns while the bodices had different decorations, Josette having roses and Esmé having ribbons. They wore gloves of white and teal that stretched past their elbows. For jewelry, they both wore a pair of bracelets, fine necklaces around their now pale necks, studded earrings, and small tiaras on their heads.

Showing their dark hair was obviously out of the question, so they wore wigs. Josette wore one of dark auburn hair styled into a chignon with curled bangs. Esmé wore one of pale blond hair with the bangs pulled back and the rest falling to her shoulders in ringlets. As for their faces, they saw that the inserts had done their duty and reshaped them; not extensively, but just enough. They'd decided not to use lenses to change their eye color, thinking it too complicated. Hopefully the slight rouge on the cheekbones and lips, as well as the eyeshadow, would help disguise their faces enough along with the inserts and powder.

In short, the girls had somehow managed to transform themselves from elegant ballet dancers to exquisite and dainty butterflies ready to greet the beauty of the night, and they knew it, especially Esmé, who couldn't look away from the girl who looked so different from her usual self.

"Goodness," she breathed, her widened eyes staring back at her.

"I know," Josette nodded in agreement, "It appears we've reaped the benefits of our hard work."

"I only hope our plan works tonight," Esmé sighed.

"You have doubts?"

Esmé gave a slight nod. "I would not be honest if I said I didn't. I would not be human if I said I didn't."

"If it makes you feel any better, I have doubts too," Josette admitted, "But we've planned and we're ready."

Though the words were supposed to be ones of assurance, she then eyed Esmé sadly, and it didn't take long for her to notice.

"What's wrong?" Esmé asked.

Josette sighed. "I really am sorry for upsetting you this morning. I mean, ever since _Tante_ Mirela died, I felt like I needed to be like she was. I was only five years old when my maman passed away, and I hardly knew her. And, since yours is gone too…"

"I understand," Esmé nodded, "You felt like you needed to look after me and Victor."

Josette only nodded, not knowing what else to say, until Esmé spoke for her.

"Then you should know that, while I really do appreciate that, you still aren't much older than us. You have to let us figure things out every once in a while."

Josette nodded again. "I know," she sighed, "I only feel that, if anything happens to either of you it will be my fault."

"Nothing is going to happen to us," Esmé assured her, "And I'm sorry too, for running off. But, I'm going to fix this."

"You mean _we're_ going to fix this, together," Josette corrected her.

"Right," Esmé nodded in agreement, "We should probably go meet Victor."

Josette smiled as she took up her folded fan, which was the same color as her gown, and Esmé took up hers. She then held out her arm and asked, "Shall we cousin?"

"Let's," Esmé replied. She then took Josette's arm and the two proceeded toward the door, but they quickly discovered upon reaching it that passing through it at the same time was easier said than done. Though they tried squeezing through together, their dresses simply wouldn't allow them to do so. Both gave each other an awkward look.

"Maybe we should pass through one at a time?" Josette suggested.

"I agree," Esmé nodded. She then moved out of the way and allowed Josette to go before her. She followed her down the hall and then gathered her skirt in her hands when she reached the stairs, revealing the boots she wore underneath as she walked down.

"Do you think anyone will notice?" she asked.

"No one will be looking at our feet," Josette replied. Like Esmé, she too wore a set of clothes underneath, not just the boots but a shirt and trousers borrowed from Victor, since those would obviously be easier to run in. She would take off the dress and everything else once she and Victor were in the cab to go and meet Esmé. But for now, both looked as though fit to meet Queen Victoria herself.

Once both were downstairs, they were surprised to see Victor already waiting for them, and even more so when they realized he was a rather handsome sight to see. Though he was slightly short for his age, he looked several years older. He wore a wig the same dark red as his sister's, as well as both a fake moustache and beard that encircled his face. He wore his black evening coat, trousers, and shining black boots. Around his neck was a white tie, and his hands bore white gloves. Josette couldn't help but raise her eyebrows at seeing her little brother in such a way.

"Why Victor," she said, "don't you look handsome."

"Don't press me," he said as he smiled a false smile.

"Well, in any event, what do you think?" Josette asked, "How do we look?"

For added affect, she took out her fan and unfolded it, while Esmé did the same. They then fluttered them flirtatiously, and couldn't help but giggle at the face Victor was giving them, the kind one would give when they couldn't find the right words to say.

"Well?" Esmé asked, "Don't we look 'fetching,' as they say?"

Victor only blinked twice, his mouth half-smiling and half-frowning. The only thing he could say in response to his sister and cousin actually looking rather "fetching" was, "I suppose."

Esmé raised her eyebrows at such a simple response, but she shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, "That will do."

Josette apparently left it at that as well, for she then smiled and said, "_Très bien_. We'd best be off then. The night awaits."

She walked up beside Victor, and raised her arm up for him, but he only looked at her with a face that clearly showed his hesitance. "Do I have to?" he asked.

"Do you want to look like a gentleman?" Josette asked.

Truthfully, had it been any other occasion, he couldn't have cared less. But before long, without a word, Victor only rolled his eyes and took his sister's right arm in his left. To his dismay, Esmé walked over to his right and held up her left arm. After giving a small sigh, he took her arm as well.

Esmé pointed forward with her folded fan and said, "Lead on cousin!"

Though he let out a slight groan, which inevitably caused both girls to chuckle, Victor needed no more prodding and walked forward through the theater, holding his sister's right arm in his left, and his cousin's left arm in his right. Even though they were the only ones awake, they still kept quiet as they walked across the stage and made their way to the door that would lead outside. Of course, not all of them could go through it at once. Victor went first, followed by Josette, and then Esmé, until all three had finally stepped into the night, which sent Esmé a sense of uneasiness as well as a breeze cold enough to make her shiver.

Victor hurried over to the corner, and Esmé and Josette watched as his head, framed by the light of the streetlamp a few feet away from him, turned left and right. He then turned around and nodded his head to the right, letting them know the coast was clear. Both girls nodded back, took up their skirts, and quickly headed over to join him.

Together, all three walked out into the exposing lamplight, looking every inch two ladies and a gentleman of the upper class. Before long, they got a cab, and all three quickly climbed in – while Esmé and Josette hoped the driver wouldn't notice the boots underneath their skirts. The two sat together across from Victor, and as they rode down the street together, the three immediately began discussing – in hushed tones for fear that the driver would hear – their plan, one more time.

"Remember that we are not the de Beaumont children tonight," Josette reminded them, "We are simply a lord and two ladies of the upper class."

"_Bien sûr_," both Esmé and Victor nodded. Suddenly though, Esmé corrected both herself and her cousin by replying the same thing in accented English, "Of course."

It was not especially difficult to come up with names for their disguises. They decided to share the same surname – specifically the maiden name of Josette and Victor's mother: Armistead. As for first names, they thought it best to use the English versions of their middle names. Victor would be Lord Frederick, Josette would be Lady Elizabeth, and Esmé would be Lady Ophelia.

Hearing her middle name only reminded Esmé of her father even more. Though French, he was an admirer of Shakespeare, and _Hamlet _was perhaps his favorite play. Thus, while her mother named her Esmé, her father slipped in between the name of Hamlet's lady love, who went mad and committed suicide after the death of her own father. Esmé wondered if she herself would succumb to the same insanity if anything happened to her papa, but that just all the more made her even more determined to go through with tonight's plan.

The real question though, was whether everyone would succeed in doing their parts. Esmé wasn't too concerned about Josette. Though she considered herself a good actress, as far as she was concerned, Josette was gifted with it. For all Esmé knew, her cousin could pretend to die and no one would guess otherwise. As for Victor, however, he wasn't too interested in the ways of the theater beyond perhaps playing the piano for them occasionally at practice. Who knew? Perhaps he would surprise them tonight. But if not…

Suddenly, another issue raised itself in Esmé's mind. She still had not told them of a lone man who threatened her with a knife. She bit her lip in anxiety as she wondered whether or not she should tell them now, while she still had time. There was a bit of a possibility that she could face similar danger tonight.

But before she could think about it any further, the cab slowed to a stop, and Esmé could feel her heart sink. If she couldn't tell her cousins about the danger looming over her head, then all she could do was hope that it would not befall her before the night was over.

Victor walked out first and, in a rather chivalrous manner, took the hand of his sister, and then his cousin as they walked out after him. He then paid the cab, and all three couldn't help but watch as it strolled on down the street, lit only by a pair of lamps every few feet, before it faded away from view completely. They then turned their attention back to their mission, and the pair of dark, all too ominous alleyways ahead of them.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Victor asked quietly.

"I'm certain," Esmé assured him in the same tone.

Both then heard Josette breathe a heavy sigh. "Well then, what are we waiting for?" she then asked, "It's too late to turn back now."

Esmé, without paying heed to Victor's reaction, or her strongly beating heart, only sighed a lighter sigh, and nodded. "Right you are," she agreed.

"Then let us move on," Victor said. But before either girls could move, he stopped them both, and looked left and right. Seeing that no one was watching them, and that they weren't near any streetlamps, he whispered fiercely, "Now!" He then rushed on ahead, with Esmé and Josette right behind him.

Once they crossed the two alleyways, it didn't take long for Esmé to recognize the back of Wellington's house. She felt her heart leap to her throat, but her mind remained focused. She and her cousins slowed down to a slow and careful walk, until Victor held up his hand for them to stop. He then snuck up and stopped next to the window that lead to the dining room on the first floor, which was lit, and looked inside.

"Is it safe?" Josette suddenly asked.

"Seems to be," Victor quietly replied. He then turned around and urged them forward. "We must be fast."

"I hope this works," Josette breathed.

After looking around one more time to make sure no one was watching, Victor quickly pulled up the window, and hurried hastily inside. He then turned around and helped his sister in, followed by Esmé, who was silently cursing the slowness of movement this otherwise lovely dress was imposing on her. But as soon as she was in, she quickly lowered the window back to its original, barely opened, position.

Once all three were inside, and with no time to admire the room they were in – though all thought of it as looking quite nice – they were about to rush toward the door that would lead to the foyer, when a door behind them opened, causing all of them to widen their eyes and freeze in place. None of them let out a single sound, not even a gasp, such was their surprise at being seen.

Though none of them turned around to see who it was, they could tell by the young feminine voice that it was probably a maid. "Oh, Sir?"

Esmé and Josette watched only with their eyes as Victor turned around, cleared his throat, and asked in an accented voice slightly deeper than his own, "Yes?"

"Pardon me for asking but, what are you and your ladies doing here?"

Only then did both girls turn around, and slowly, to see that it was indeed a maid, with eyebrows raised in surprise.

Victor then replied, "Forgive us, Madam. We were just looking around."

"And, if you'll please excuse us, we should be getting back to the ball," Josette quickly added in the same accented voice. She tugged gently on her brother's elbow, and he immediately got the message and turned toward the door with her.

"Of course," Esmé nodded before she turned to join her cousins. Before the maid could say anything else, the three hastened to the door, and went through it one at a time before closing it again behind them. And before any of them could wonder if they had given themselves away, they looked down at the hallway ahead of them, and the sounds of a ball going underway at the end of it.

In an attempt to calm her rapidly beating heart, Esmé once again wrapped her arm around Victor's, and watched as Josette did the same. Together, all three stared down the hallway, at the unknown future that awaited them, ready to entrap them, or celebrate a job well done.

"This is it," Esmé said quietly, "Shall we?"

"Let's," Victor replied.

"Agreed," Josette added.

Holding their heads up high, and looking as high class as they could, the three walked forward down the hall, none of them looking back even once. It was all Esmé could do to keep from falling over, as each step made her feel as though her feet were falling asleep. However, no matter how much she wished to ignore it, it wasn't long before all came upon the foyer in all its true grandeur.

Even before the made sure no one was looking before finally making their entrance, the eyes of all three couldn't help but widen at what they saw. Dozens of gentlemen and ladies had gathered in Wellington's house. The men were tall and wearing fine midnight-black coats with double tails, white ties around their necks, and white gloves on their hands. Most of them were wearing at least one or two medals. The women were wearing gowns of all sorts of colors, their hair was all swept up nicely, and the jewels they wore sparkled in the candlelight that lit the chandelier above the room. Some were holding fans up, likely to send secret messages to lovers across the room. There were couples dancing in a circle around the room, a small group of musicians was playing a waltz just a few feet away, and just as she thought, two men in a style of dress from the previous century stood guard in front of the staircase that led to the second floor.

Esmé had never seen such a magnificent sight, and seeing it reminded her all the more to act like a lady tonight. But of course, the mission had not left anyone's mind, especially not hers.

Victor leaned toward her and whispered, "Is he here?"

Esmé looked carefully around the room, observing every masculine face to see any hint of familiarity in them, before she shook her head. "No," she replied, "I don't see him."

"He could be wearing a disguise," Victor pointed out.

Esmé nodded. "True, but I think I would notice it right away."

Suddenly, she let out a brief gasp as her eyes caught a rather familiar face, but not the one she was looking for. "Look, there's Lord Wellington." She quickly pointed out the tall, foreboding, red-headed man who stood across the room, looking as though to be carrying on what she assumed to be a polite conversation.

"Do you suppose he'll recognize us?" Josette asked quietly.

"Hopefully not," Victor replied, "He's hardly ever seen us."

"In any event we should try to avoid him," Esmé said.

"Agreed," Josette nodded.

"And remember," Esmé reminded them, "we don't do anything until I give the signal."

"Of course," Victor nodded.

"But perhaps we should also try to enjoy ourselves," Josette noted as she took her fan out.

Esmé gave only a ghost of a nod as she too took out her fan, though more to cool her already heating face rather than to look ladylike.

"Oh I second that," Victor agreed in an eager voice. It was then that both girls noticed how he was eyeing the wine on the table behind them. Just as he was reaching out his hand to take some, Josette grabbed his wrist in a millisecond. Just as instantly, their eyes met, his showing his disappointment at getting caught while hers were strictly stern.

"Don't even think about it," she shook her head.

Esmé let out a bit of a chuckle, when she looked up at the front entrance, and she felt her heart nearly stop. In walked a man whom she instantly recognized, whose face had been etched into her mind: Sherlock Holmes. Just laying eyes upon the man who had been pursuing her made her instantly turn her head away, though doing so didn't do much to comfort her.

And it wasn't long before her cousins noticed.

"What's wrong?" Josette whispered.

Too nervous to say anything, Esmé only nodded her head to the right. Josette looked that way, and her eyes widened as she let out a slight gasp.

"What is it?" Victor asked.

"It's him," Josette replied, "But, who is that man with him?"

Esmé, confused, looked back at Mr. Holmes, who seemed to be speaking with Wellington. But right next to both stood a man whom Holmes seemed to be introducing to Wellington, as she could see them shaking hands. She hadn't noticed him before. Had he come in with Mr. Holmes? He appeared to be as tall as him, his eyes were grey – and seemed friendly, he had short, dark hair, and a moustache crossed his face.

"That might be Dr. Watson," she then heard Victor reply.

Hearing that familiar name immediately made her lean toward him and ask, "His former partner, you mean? But I thought they weren't working together anymore."

"That doesn't mean he can't ask for his help every once in a while," Victor said, "They are old colleagues after all."

Esmé nodded, but the instant she saw Mr. Holmes turn her way, she quickly turned back to her cousin. She then hid her mouth behind her fan, and whispered, "Right. Until I give the signal, we act as naturally as possible."

Both Victor and Josette nodded, and Esmé could only hope that tonight, the scales of fortune would somehow tip in her favor.

Meanwhile, Holmes had taken Watson aside to discuss how the night's events might unfold.

"Always nice to see you Watson," he said as he tried to smile.

Watson returned it only slightly before his frown showed again. "I'm only doing this because of our friendship," he reminded him.

"Of course," Holmes nodded. He then turned his head toward the room, at the now immense sea of people before him, and already put the investigative part of his brilliant mind at work. "Now, we cannot afford to let anything escape our notice."

"Agreed," Watson nodded, "But, with all of this distraction, wouldn't she simply come in through a second-story window?"

"What would give you that idea?"

"Well we still know little to nothing about her," Watson reasoned, "She could be an expert rock climber for all we know."

"Yes," Holmes said slowly as he began looking at every single person in the room, "But considering her recent exploits, it is also possible that she might even be somewhere in this very room."

Watson raised his eyebrows. "Are you certain?" he asked, "Do you really think she would be so bold as to go about without her mask?"

"From what I have seen, she is a woman of risks," Holmes replied, "Therefore I do not see her as being entirely above doing so."

Watson joined him in looking at every young, feminine face, and drew only one conclusion based on what he had seen, and already knew. "Then she could be any young lady here."

"True," Holmes agreed, "But only one of them can be her." He continued observing every young woman in the room, one by one, looking for at least a flicker of any familiar features, until his eyes settled curiously on one lady in particular.

She stood on the side of the room opposite from him, and she wore a gown of dark teal. Gloves of the same color traveled up her arms, and swept-up, pale blond hair crowned her head. At first, she didn't seem much different from most of the other ladies, but at once Holmes noticed a few things about her that made her stand out. She held a fan in her hand, which seemed to twitch nervously. Though her skin was pale, most of her face was a rosy red, as if in anxious anticipation. But the most peculiar feature about her was her eyes. Dark brown, they reflected what seemed to be a sense of tension, and it didn't take long for Holmes to decide to try and get a better look.

He turned to his old partner one more time and made his decision known. "I think I shall delve deeper into this investigation. If your theory proves correct, then alert me at once."

"Will do," Watson nodded.

Holmes nodded back, and stood straight before striding over like a gentleman to the only woman who managed to capture his interest, intent on finding the treasure beneath all the dirt that kept getting in his way.

Esmé was doing her best to maintain composure, and wondering whether she should even try to move at all. Not even the most minute detail would be overlooked by Mr. Holmes. All it would take for everything under her to collapse would be one false move, no matter how big or small. She practically had to force herself to remain calm, but she stopped trying the moment she saw the great detective himself, as he was making his way toward her.

Esmé wanted to flee, but her feet remained fused to the floor. She considered hiding half her face behind her fan, but before she could do so, he was standing right in front of her, and their eyes were once again locked on each other.

"Good evening my dear," he said.

Esmé remembered only then to nod her head deeply in greeting, and to reply in an accented voice as pleasantly as possible, "Good evening, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume?"

"You know me?" Mr. Holmes asked.

"Why would I not?" she said, "All of London knows of you."

"And whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

Esmé opened her mouth to speak, but quickly remembered to use her other name. "Lady Ophelia Armistead, Sir."

Holmes raised his eyebrows slightly. "Lady Ophelia," he repeated more slowly, "Lovely name."

"Why, thank you," Esmé nodded, trying her best to smile. Indeed, she was trying her best to breathe at all.

"Listen," Holmes then said. Right before her eyes, he held his hand out to her and asked, "Would you care to dance?"

The instant he asked her that, Esmé felt her knees weaken until she feared she would keel over. Her instincts immediately suspected this to be a trap, or at least a lure into one. But just as immediately, her overwhelming need not to attract the wrong kind of attention proved more effective. She implored the strength to return to her knees and forced herself to ask politely, "With me?"

"Why not?" Holmes asked, "It's not every evening that I get to dance with such a ravishing woman."

Whether or not he was sincere, receiving such a compliment brought a fresh blush onto Esmé's cheeks, and she turned away slightly. "You're too kind."

Esmé then realized that she had to make some sort of move. Though she still had the feeling that this was a possible trap, a silent voice – perhaps her need to act accordingly as the lady she was pretending to be – urged her to take the dive into the sea of uncertainty. After all, this certainly wasn't the first time she'd taken such a risk. And should any trouble rear its ugly head, she could not shy away from it.

Deciding, for now, to give the illusion that she'd taken the bait, Esmé closed her fan and laid it down on the table behind her, before smiling and putting her hand in Mr. Holmes', ignoring the slight electric shock of the touch. "I'd be delighted," she said. She then willed her feet to move forward as Holmes then led her to the middle of the floor, where she found she had to do everything in her willpower to remain calm.

Though she'd never done ballroom dancing before, Esmé briefly remembered how she would pretend to with her father. The memory immediately faded the moment she and Mr. Holmes began taking their positions. She put her right hand in his left, and her left hand on his shoulder, while he put his right hand on her waist, which caused an electric shock even more prevalent than before. And it wasn't long before they began moving to the now haunting sound of the waltz music.

As they danced around the room together, and their eyes remained focused on the other, Esmé felt her heart beat apprehensively, and she began feeling ill in her stomach. She knew her cousins might be watching, but she couldn't afford to even steal a glance at them. As she and Mr. Holmes danced though, she couldn't help but realize that had she not been so consumed by the dire situation at hand, she would have admired how somewhat handsome he looked, even if he was at least twice her age. He looked very much an English gentleman, with his black coat, white gloves, and noble bearing. But the way he looked intently at her, and the subconscious reminder of her mission, made her look away slightly.

"You know," he then said, "you look rather familiar. Have we met?"

Knowing beforehand that he would ask that, Esmé gave her prepared reply. "Perhaps. Perhaps not."

"Interesting," he murmured. By now, Esmé could almost feel his breath against her face.

But then, as they continued to look at each other with the same intensity, Esmé felt the need to break the silence. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Mr. Holmes then looked as though he was breaking out of deep concentration. "Pardon me," he said, "I was only, thinking."

"What about?" Esmé asked.

"About a certain person who's been attracting my interest," he replied, "I cannot say much but, they seem to be eluding me, and I intend to find out why."

Esmé couldn't help but raise her eyebrows anxiously. She knew exactly whom he was speaking of, but not knowing whether or not she was walking into another trap – which seemed to be eating away at her from the inside out – caused her to ask an ambiguous question. "What if they run?"

"I will catch them," Holmes replied.

"What if they fight?"

"I will face them."

Esmé bit her lip in an attempt to slow her now rapidly beating heart. "What if they should keep eluding you?" she then asked.

Holmes then looked at her with a bit of humor in his eye, and replied with a voice that matched, "My dear, no one can outrun the law forever."

Though she didn't want to admit it, the detective was right. Eventually, Esmé would have to face him and explain herself, never mind that she'd managed to keep herself hidden from him for nearly three days. And yet, all this time she felt as though she were teetering on the edge of an abyss, and at the end laid only punishment, disgrace, and the still unidentified whereabouts of her father. Ever since that first night, she had the feeling that Wellington had something to do with his disappearance, and stopping him appeared to be the only way to get any helpful information. It all seemed to much to bear, yet, she had to do something. But what?

Esmé had left her fan behind on the table, and she had planned to use it to signal her cousins. But now that both of her hands were on Mr. Holmes, what could she do now in order to escape him? It seemed that her plans were beginning to crumble apart, when she suddenly heard a commotion on the other side of the room.

Both Esmé and Holmes stopped to look at the sight, and both beheld Josette doing as she had intended. Her eyes widened and her hands flew to her neck. She then began coughing, looking as though she was gasping for air, before she finally toppled over onto the floor, causing nearly everyone in the room to turn their heads and gasp in alarm.

Victor, who was standing nearby, immediately hurried to her side, and called out in a worried voice, "Help! Someone! My sister needs help!"

The man who was previously with Holmes – Dr. Watson, Esmé remembered he was called – quickly turned to him and implored him to come and give him assistance. Hoping to give him an extra push, and seeing an opportunity to finally put her grand plan into action, Esmé turned to her former dance partner and nodded. "Go. They need you."

Holmes didn't speak. He only looked at her with a blank expression, then at his old colleague, and then back at her one more time before he finally decided to go and hurry over to join Watson. Esmé wasted no time. She looked around only briefly to make sure no one was looking, including the two men standing guard, and then crouched behind the table on her side of the room. She then quickly took hold of her skirts, and then bit her lip before she finally made her way as quietly as she could past the table, and then behind one of the men.

Somehow, she was fortunate enough to escape his vigil and get to the stairs. Even so, Esmé couldn't allow herself to stop. Ignoring her heart beating against her chest and not looking back even once, she quietly went up the first few steps before she broke into a run up the rest, not caring now if she was attracting attention. All that mattered now was getting those jewels from Wellington's room. She only hoped that she'd find them before too much time passed.

After she made it to the second floor, Esmé still didn't look back. She only continued down the hall that now seemed rather familiar to her, and hurried even faster then before up the next staircase, which would lead her to the third floor and then to her destination. During all this time she scarcely breathed, until she reached the top and then finally made it to the door at the end of the hall.

She found that it was unlocked, but did not allow herself time to be surprised. Esmé only ran inside and then locked the door behind her, before she underwent her remarkable transformation. She and Josette had modified their dresses to make them easier and faster to remove, and she was doing so as fast as she possibly could. Esmé first took off her skirts, revealing the trousers and boots she wore underneath, and then the bodice, which revealed her red costume. She then pulled off her gloves, under which she wore her other pair and wrist bands. And after taking off her jewelry, she pulled off her wig to let down her ponytail held by its usual red ribbon. Luckily, she hadn't forgotten to bring her mask, which she had hidden in her bodice. She took it up from the floor, swiftly donned it on her face, and then remembered to take out the inserts inside her nose and cheeks. Only when her transformation was done did she proceed to search for the jewels.

This time, Esmé was looking for two necklaces, not unlike the one belonging to Lord Hampton. These, however, belonged to Lord Loxley. One was made of emeralds – which she recalled seeing before – while the other was made of both rubies and sapphires. To have two kinds of gems in one necklace, one would have to be very wealthy. Esmé desperately hoped she'd find them somewhere in here. She closed her eyes and thought intensely about where he might have put them, when it occurred to her. If she were hiding jewels, she would hide them in the last place a thief who had been here before would look: the same place as before.

Esmé looked around, and noticed the same drawer looking devices on both shelves like the one she'd seen before, and immediately headed for the one she remembered the emerald necklace being in. She wrapped her fingers around it and pulled. And there it was, just as she found it before. Seeing the glorious green gems caused a glimmer of hope to reappear in Esmé's eyes, but even then, she could not slow down. She quickly but carefully took the necklace, and put it in the leather bag around her waist before closing the drawer and going for the next one, which stood behind her.

To her excitement, she found the other necklace, and she couldn't recall seeing a finer one in all her life. Esmé was almost afraid to touch it, for fear that she might break it, when her mind overpowered her nerves and she took it up and placed it inside her bag. Just as quickly, she shut the drawer, and then hurried back to the locked door. So great was her need to leave as fast as possible, that she didn't exactly think about facing opposition, until she opened the door, and her eyes widened as she encountered the very man she had just been dancing with.

As he blocked her way out, and made himself appear to be a tall shadow in the dim light behind him, Esmé caught the slight smirk that began to form on his face. "Going somewhere, _Mademoiselle_?" he asked her in English.

Esmé only took one step, then two, back, trying desperately to come up with a way of escape, but feeling trapped nonetheless. "Um, uh," she stammered.

Holmes raised an eyebrow at her. "Well?" he asked, looking as though he'd finally caught his mouse.

Esmé knew that only mere seconds would pass before she was finally detained. Even so, she continued to think. Then, as she looked briefly over her shoulder, her eye only for an instant spotted the window behind her, and she believed she'd gotten an idea. Deciding one was better than none at all, she turned back around and nodded in reply. _"Oui."_

She then spun around and took off for the window, and as she planned, Holmes followed her. But just as he was reaching his arms out to catch her, Esmé dove to one side, quickly reached out her leg, and watched with a bit of amusement as the great Sheriff of Nottingham tripped over her foot and crashed down to the wooden floor. She couldn't stay to laugh though. Esmé dashed past Mr. Holmes, jumped over the clothes she left behind, and hurried through the open and unblocked door before rushing down the third floor hall.

She didn't slow down as she ran down the stairs, when she found that she had reached an impasse. Hearing footsteps on the upper floor, she looked around for a place to go. She obviously couldn't go down the next set of stairs and into the foyer, nor could she go down to the wine cellar. Only one option seemed to await Esmé: a slightly open window at the end of the second-story hall.

Holmes wasted no time in hurrying out of the room once he was on his feet again. He was now so close to catching this thief, and he was not going to lose her again. Not only that, but it no longer seemed to matter that she wore a mask. He had seen her face, and a somewhat familiar one at that. Even if he did get unlucky enough to lose her, it still wouldn't be long before he found her.

As he made it to the second floor, it seemed that he had indeed lost her again, when he suddenly heard what sounded like a window being opened. His head immediately turned to the right, and his eyes widened as he saw the Masked Gypsy standing on the now fully opened window. Knowing what she was about to do, he quickly headed toward her, shouting, "No! Stop!"

The masked woman turned her head around, and before Holmes could grab her, she leaped out, leaving the detective with little choice but to watch with dismay at the disaster that quickly unraveled below him.

* * *

_Reviews would be appreciated._


	10. A Knife in the Dark

**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Chapter 9 – A Knife in the Dark

After she jumped out the window, Esmé had barely an instant to think about what she was doing. Before she knew it, she landed first on what felt like a metallic ledge, and then crashed down onto the cold, hard ground below. Great pain immediately shot through her right ankle, her left hip, her left shoulder, and the left side of her head. She just as instantly let out a cry of pain. She then groaned once, then twice, and let out a few coughs before she forced herself to raise her upper body on her left elbow.

As she struggled to regain her breath – which had quite literally been knocked out of her – Esmé instinctively put her hand to her injured hip, and then her head. Her vision was now blurry, and she felt so dizzy and ill she feared she would either vomit, or pass out, or both.

But before her body could decide to do either, an old determination resurfaced in Esmé's mind. It shot through her head as much as, if not more so than, the pain she was still experiencing. She'd come so far already, and she had Lord Loxley's jewels, which were likely still intact since she landed mostly on her left side. Why could she let a few wounds stop her? They might not even be that serious.

_Oh…!_ Obstacles could go jump in a lake as far as she was concerned. She hadn't come this far to be stopped now. No matter what, Esmé was going to see to her mission's completion, and no amount of pain was going to stop her, or even slow her down. And as for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, let him try to catch her. She outran him once, she could do it again. All she had to do was get on her feet again.

Though, to be fair, that was easier said than done. Even so, Esmé put both her hands on the ground, grit her teeth, and pushed upward. Now came the harder part. With all her strength, she put out her left foot, and raised herself onto her feet. She then shook her head a bit to get rid of the dizzy feelings, bit her lip as she looked down at the alleyway she'd traveled through only one night before, and braced herself before she finally took off as fast as she could down it.

Almost immediately, Esmé discovered just how hard running is when one has an injured foot. Fresh shots of pain traveled through her leg with every step she took, but she ignored them to the best of her ability. Still, she knew it wouldn't be long before she heard Mr. Holmes come after her, and it was even more possible than before that he might apprehend her. She also had to get to the East End to meet Josette and Victor, and that was still somewhat faraway. The thought of taking a cab came to mind, when Esmé remembered just as quickly, and much to her dismay, that she had no money. It then became quite clear to her. She needed to come up with another way of travel to get to her destination, and fast.

As she made her way through the dimly-lit streets, Esmé looked and listened for anything that could get her where she needed. But for what seemed like a thousand years, she neither saw nor heard anything, and the pain in her ankle certainly didn't help much. She wished she could simply grow wings and fly. Oh dear, perhaps that wound to her head must have rattled her brain a bit more than she thought.

Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks. She did hear something. The sound of hooves clopping against the cobblestone road. Esmé turned her head in that direction, and her eyes widened with relief when she saw a large carriage rolling down the street, pulled by twin black horses, and likely owned by someone rather wealthy. Deciding that it was better than nothing, she looked left then right. And when she didn't see Mr. Holmes on her trail, she looked back at the carriage, took a deep breath, and headed for it.

Without paying heed to the attention she knew she'd receive, once Esmé believed herself to be in the right position, she jumped forward, arms outstretched, and latched onto the side of the carriage. Before she even grabbed on though, two pairs of alarmed eyes immediately turned her way, one being from the footman standing on the back, and the other from the coachman sitting in front. Still, in an attempt to humor either one of them, Esmé managed a smile and said, _"Bonsoir."_

Just then, a third pair of eyes met hers, this one coming from an older, well-dressed man sitting inside whom she assumed to be the owner of the carriage, and he obviously looked rather displeased.

"What the, what's the meaning of this?!" he demanded.

Holding on with one hand, Esmé immediately put her finger to her lips and shushed him to the best of her ability. "Save your alarm; I swear to you I'm not a robber!" she hissed quietly.

"Then state your business!" the man insisted.

Without stopping to breathe, Esmé explained herself as quickly as she could, but without giving away confidential information. "I'm being chased by a madman, and if he catches me I'm done for! Please, I only need the ride is all!"

The man opened his mouth, most likely to refuse her, but suddenly, someone took him by the arm, stopping him and causing him to look at them. Though Esmé couldn't see the person, as they were hidden in the shadows, she could tell from the wedding ring on one of their fingers, and the different type of voice she then heard, that it was a woman, possibly the man's wife. She then waited while the two spoke to each other, though she couldn't hear them above the creaking of the wheels and the clopping of the horses' hooves. However, she held on, bit her lip, and her heart beat anxiously as she waited for their response to her plea, knowing very well that the chances of a positive one were slim.

Before long, the man turned around again, and by now Esmé was feeling sweat begin to form on her forehead and on her gripping fingers inside her gloves. She desperately wanted an answer, whatever it may be. Any answer at all would be preferable to dreading what possibly lay ahead.

She watched as the man looked out the window at the coachman, and listened with utmost attention as he said in a commanding but no longer demanding voice, "Sawyer, drive on!"

At that moment, though her shoulders still hurt, Esmé felt as if a great weight had been lifted from them. She wondered if either the man or his wife heard the sigh of relief she unconsciously allowed to escape her lips, but a mere second later, she didn't care. Suddenly, however, she felt a hand grab her by the wrist. She instantly looked up to see that it was the footman.

"Come," he said, "You can ride here."

Esmé nodded, and moved her left foot around until she felt a solid ledge. With the remaining strength she had at the moment, and the help of the footman, she hoisted herself forward, and soon found herself standing by his side on the back of the carriage, looking almost as though she might be a footman herself.

And just in time as well, apparently. For just after she'd gotten the more stable position, Esmé heard the faint sound of a shout behind her. Fearing who it might be, but wanting to know nonetheless, she turned her head around, and immediately gasped when she saw a man whom she recognized even from this distance: Mr. Holmes. She just as quickly ducked down slightly, to escape exposure, and her eyes widened when she saw another man she recognized: Dr. Watson.

Esmé watched as the two appeared to speak to one another, and then split up, Mr. Holmes going to the pathway on the left while Dr. Watson went right. She could then only give a frustrated sigh. _Oh _magnifique, she thought sarcastically. As if having one man after her wasn't bad enough. Now she would have to outsmart two considerably intelligent men.

But for now, she was immensely grateful for the ride. She still kept herself low to the platform, as she wasn't about to take for granted the apparent safety. Even so, she considered it a blessing, now that she would be able to regain at least some of her strength. She wanted to hold off running again for as long as possible, as doing so would probably further disturb her already traumatic injuries.

Fortunately, the carriage didn't travel through any streets she wasn't familiar with, otherwise all the trouble she'd previously been willing to cause would have been for naught. But just as Esmé realized they might go down a different road than she intended, the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a house that seemed as posh as Lord Wellington's. Had circumstances been different, she would have admired the lavish way it looked, but now was not the time. Instead, she eased into a sitting position on the platform, grabbed onto the edge, and made her way down, wincing at the new pain brought onto her ankle.

Still, she remembered her manners and called to the wealthy man in a voice the whole street hopefully wouldn't hear, _"Merci Monsieur!" _And without waiting for a reply, she hurried away from the carriage as fast as she had earlier hurried toward it, the faint fire of hope within her having been fanned into a flame much like the ones contained in the street lamps. She was not far from the East End.

However, it soon became clear to her that nature seemed to have decided to set up its own obstacles for her. Not long after she left the carriage behind, Esmé noticed how a fine, haunting fog had begun to settle as she ran deeper into the city. Just the cover a ruffian – or Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson – would need to seize her without warning. Though she knew she had it, Esmé felt on her right leg for her knife, and was immediately relieved to feel its hilt around her hand. Still, she ran on. Still, she ignored the near constant pain inflicted on her injuries.

Even so, it soon became unavoidable, and Esmé again pressed her hand on her sore hip. What she touched, though, alarmed her to the point where she had to look. Her eyes widened when she saw that not only did she have a possible fracture on her hip, but also an open wound, as a small amount of dark red blood had begun to stain her trousers. By now she was beginning to wonder if she would eventually simply collapse on the road, but it wasn't long before she heard a loud sound that instantly renewed her alertness. It was nature's version of the sound of a gunshot: a loud clap of thunder.

Esmé quickly slowed to a halt, and looked up at the pitch black sky to see a few flashes of lightning, after which came another thunder clap. Knowing that rain would only slow her down even further, she realized that the only shortcuts to the planned meeting place would be through the alleyways. It didn't bother her that much, though. She'd gone through the dark, tall tunnels twice before. Who was to say she couldn't a third time?

With a deep breath of determination and clenched fists, Esmé made her way through the nearest alleyway, ready to defend herself at a moment's notice, only to brace herself in the same manner before going through the next one.

However, just as she was leaving the second one, she very nearly ran into a tall, shadowed figure, whose face was illuminated by the lightning before she could do so. She let out a gasp of horror the second she saw the striking brown eyes and hair as dark as her own, for she knew this face to be none other than that of Mr. Holmes, who was also clearly surprised to find her.

For a moment, both stood frozen as though they were statues, neither knowing for sure what the other would do. Then, out of the corner of her eye Esmé saw his arm reach out. But before he could grab her, she dove out of his way and his reach, and ran faster than she ever previously did that night in an attempt to flee him, not daring to look back.

She did, though, hear him not just run behind her, but also rather unexpectedly call out to her in a rather concerned voice, "Wait! Stop!" But she ignored him and continued further, determined as ever to get away from him and find her cousins as soon as possible. Still, he tried to get her attention. "You're hurt! Let me help you!"

So he had noticed her injuries, much to her dismay. Esmé stubbornly refused to appear in any way vulnerable to this man, as that was one step away from being sent to prison, or worse, an asylum. Gathering up all her mental strength and determination, she shouted back at him in French, _"Leave me alone!"_

But her efforts proved useless. Holmes continued to chase her, and she continued to flee, ignoring the pain in her aching body that with every step became more unbearable. Indeed, it was all she could do to keep the hot tears in her eyes from descending down her cheeks.

Just as it seemed she could go no further though, before Esmé could consider whether or not to stop, she felt something – or rather, someone – roughly take hold of her ponytail. She instantly let out a painful cry, but before she could do anything else, let alone wonder what just happened, a harsh, masculine voice hissed in French, _"Quiet!" _And the next thing she knew, she was being held against what felt to be a stone wall of a man, wearing a familiar black cloak to conceal his face, and on her chest he had placed the point of something that nearly made her leap out of her skin: the blade of what appeared to be a brand new knife.

It instantly looked as though fate had come full circle as Esmé recalled the warning she'd been given just the night before. She felt as though she might as well be facing Jack the Ripper himself. Even so, feeling the need to at least try to escape, Esmé reached for her knife, but could only touch the tip of the hilt. And squirming about didn't seem to be an option, as her body ached greatly and no one had ever held her this tightly and this fiercely before. All she could do was look with fright at the weapon she'd once been threatened with, and then give a look of desperation at Mr. Holmes. Despite her previous feelings toward him, only he could save her from this assassin.

Holmes could only look on with astonishment at the scene before him. Could this possibly be a trap for him? Unlikely, he decided. Judging by her body language, the woman looked genuinely hurt, and based on almost all the criminals he'd seen, probably no partner-in-crime would treat her in such a manner. But beyond simple deductive reasoning, once his own startled eyes met her clearly frightened ones, Holmes put aside for the moment that fact that she was a thief. He could not allow for this to happen. He could not let her face a violent death.

Remembering that he'd brought his handgun with him, in case she had any "friends," he immediately took it out from inside his coat and pointed it directly at the cloaked man, who, in response, held the masked woman firmly with the knife to her chest, not moving an inch.

_"Shoot at me," _the man shouted, _"and the girl dies!"_

Holmes kept the gun raised, but he reluctantly stayed where he was, not wanting to endanger the Masked Gypsy any further. Instead, he asked, _"What do you want with her?"_

In an unexpected response, the man didn't reply with words, at least not at first. Rather, while still holding the woman, he used his knife to swiftly draw a new wound around her right upper arm before returning it to her chest. Though she gasped in both alarm and pain, she remained still and looked even more frightened than before.

_"Do not condescend to me!" _the man shouted, the intent to kill clearly evident in his voice.

In that moment, Holmes realized he needed to come up with a plan to save this woman, and quickly, otherwise he'd have a murder even he couldn't prevent. Just as he was starting to think one up though, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted on the road behind the cloaked man an all-too familiar friend of his, and immediately he had a plan in mind. As inconspicuously as he could he nodded to the man he was pointing the gun at, and his friend nodded back, allowing Holmes to give this man his full attention again.

In an attempt to both negotiate with him, and buy some time, Holmes said in his most serious tone of voice he could muster, _"Listen to me. You don't want to do this."_

_"Why not?!" _the madman asked as he continued to hold the Masked Gypsy, the heat of the tension steadily rising between him and the detective.

Holmes chose his words as carefully as he could, knowing the wrong one could immediately sentence her to death. _"Because," _he replied, _"of what significance could someone like her possibly be to someone like you?"_

The man continued to hold the knife against his hostage, but a moment of silence passed anxiously before he gave his half-snarky, half-vicious reply, _"A great deal. She knows too much. You both do_…_"_

Upon hearing those words, Esmé didn't allow herself to gasp. But amid her thoughts which ran through her head like a herd of wild horses, she did allow herself to wonder, if only briefly, what the man meant. But before she could think about it any further, the sound of a gun going off from behind instantly reached her ears, causing both a panicked scream to erupt from her lips and the madman to turn both of them around to see who had done it. Esmé saw with surprise that it was actually the last person she'd expected, indeed, the last person she was thinking of: Dr. John Watson.

Her relief, however, was short-lived, as right then the man in the sinister black cloak held the knife against her neck. All Esmé could do was stay as still as possible, feel her pulse beat violently throughout all of her still aching body, and take short, quick breaths, knowing that each one she took could possibly be her last.

She allowed herself to watch, though, as Dr. Watson kept the gun raised, and said to the madman in a rather commanding voice she didn't expect from him, "Let her go, or the next bullet goes into your head!"

Once he finished speaking, Esmé shut her eyes closed, dreading what she knew would come, truly believing that she was about to die. As she felt the sharp point against the base of her neck, she couldn't recall a time in her life when she felt more terrified, and she silently began saying her goodbyes and apologizing to her father, Josette, and Victor, for failing all of them.

However, the sharp swipe of the knife never reached any part of her. In fact, as if in defiance to the expectations of Esmé, Holmes, and Watson, the madman swiftly let go of Esmé, shoving her to the ground, and then ran off through the city, into the black night that seemed to absorb the nefarious shadow into the folds of its darkness.

Holmes and Watson both watched as he made his escape, leaving some blood on his trail from where he'd been shot in the abdomen. But the moment he left their sight, both their concerns immediately turned to the woman on the ground in front of them, and the two quickly made their way towards her.

Although Esmé wanted to contemplate how she could have possibly escaped her fate, she quickly turned her attention almost instinctively to the sound of footsteps approaching her from in front and behind. Lifting herself up, she beheld two familiar faces before her. Though she was of course grateful that these men had practically saved her life, she still wasn't exactly happy to see either of them so close to her. Almost immediately, she looked away.

"Don't, touch me," she muttered painfully at them both.

"Ah," she heard Mr. Holmes say in a somewhat surprised tone, "so our French thief does speak English after all."

It was only then that Esmé realized she had not spoken in her native tongue, as she had usually done so in this disguise. She bit back, quite literally, the desire to naughtily mutter a curse. Instead, she sneered in English, "That's none of your concern!"

Holmes retorted, in a voice devoid of sarcasm, "It is my concern if you are hurt."

Right then, Watson asked in alarm, "Hurt? What do you mean?"

As if she was not there to hear them, which she rather resented, Holmes explained, "She jumped out of a second-story window before I could catch her."

"What?!"

"Indeed," Holmes agreed in a calmer tone, "I was quite surprised to see her on her feet again, let alone run from me as she did."

Without waiting for a response from either of them, Watson shook his head and declared in a voice that revealed his made-up mind, "That's it." He then turned to the woman before him and his old colleague, and said in a concerned but serious voice, "Madam."

Though she hesitated at first, Esmé made herself look up at him. But her eyes widened somewhat at what she saw. Instead of a co-conspirator just as determined as his friend to see her get put behind bars, she saw a rather fatherly looking face, one that reminded her so much of her own papa it was all she could do to keep from crying.

"Listen to me," he said in the same tone, "I'm a doctor. If you're injured, you must let us help you."

Though she could tell he genuinely desired to help, Esmé allowed herself to wonder if she should. She admitted, her admiration for both men, especially Mr. Holmes had grown somewhat, considering that they'd just saved her life. But still, she didn't really trust the detective, and she knew his former colleague even less. Even so, when Esmé turned her attention to her body, she was rather surprised to discover just how much she ached, and how ugly her injuries looked. While her instincts told her to flee, she knew that the wiser thing to do would be to seek help where she could find it.

So, reluctantly, Esmé turned again to Dr. Watson and nodded. "Very well," she sighed.

"Good lass," he nodded back at her, "Can you stand?"

"I don't know," Esmé shook her head, which actually took almost painful effort to do.

"Here, then," Watson said. In a somewhat unexpected course of action, he reached his arms out to her, and took her entire self up in his hold, cradling her as though she were a small child while she wrapped her arms around his neck. It was then, as though the heavens themselves felt confused over the night's events, that a light rain began to fall on the three.

Before the doctor walked on though, he turned around and asked his friend, "Are you coming Holmes?"

Holmes, as though attempting to avoid the uneasiness of the situation, was looking up at the ominous black sky. When he heard his name, he first looked at Watson, then at the woman he held. Once he did, he felt an odd feeling he could not immediately name. It seemed to be a strange mixture of concern for her well-being, and the need to distance himself from feeling such, as he hardly knew her, and he all too rarely allowed himself to get emotionally involved in his cases.

Remembering to keep himself composed, as he was used to in front of his friend, he nodded at Watson and replied, "Of course. We do have unfinished business."

Watson nodded back, and together, the two men walked briskly forward through the dismal atmosphere that seemed especially grim tonight, paying little to no heed to the current, otherwise troublesome weather, and keeping their attention focused on their respective plans for this masked woman.

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_Reviews would be appreciated._


	11. Salt in the Wound

_Last chapter!_

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**The Case of the Masked Gypsy**

Chapter 10 – Salt in the Wound

In an effort to both escape the rain and get this woman to help as fast as they could, Holmes and Watson hurried hastily through the London streets, which tonight seemed the most depressing they'd been in a long time. As the rain continued to fall, in a slightly heavier amount now than when it began, the detective and the doctor looked this way and that, as well as listened, for a cab or perhaps even a brougham, anything to get to Watson's home as soon as possible.

Of course, the still-present fog and the weather did not help at all. The gray, earth-bound cloud had settled firmly within the caverns of the now cave-like city, so all of her inhabitants had to be extra careful, whether on foot, by cab, or another form of transportation, never mind the light that still came from the street lamps. And the sound of the rain pelting against the stone, as well as the occasional ring of thunder, were all Holmes and Watson disappointedly heard. No sound of creaking wheels or clopping hooves ever reached either of their ears.

Even so, both men kept their heads up, as they were accustomed in situations similar to these. They admittedly had been in circumstances that were much worse, even occasionally cheating death. But the question tonight was whether they would be able to provide adequate help for this woman who continued to perplex them, especially Holmes. He was determined that the night would not pass without him having learned the truth, however alarming or bizarre it may be. Although, a voice that was not from Watson told him to be gentle as well as firm. Even he wouldn't descend to such depravity as to upset an injured woman. As he kept looking at her – for she had just drifted into unconsciousness – both in concern and the need to finish his case, Holmes made his mind up to ask the questions after Watson tended to her.

The two continued to walk on, and both could practically feel the hour growing late with each passing moment spent in the rain. Still, they could not find a cab. Indeed, they continued to see nothing but the thick mist and hear nothing but the pouring rain and occasional thunder.

But when they reached a particular intersection, both men heard a cry of shock on the pathway left. "NO!" It was so sudden and immediate that Holmes and Watson instantly stopped and turned toward the direction of the sound, and watched with raised eyebrows as two young people, a male and a female, hurried toward them. Two young people they both recalled seeing before.

The female had long hair a slightly lighter shade than the masked woman, and the same brown eyes. And like the Masked Gypsy, she wore trousers and boots along with a shirt, presumably borrowed from the male. Holmes decided to stop paying attention to such an odd sight and instead turned it to the male beside her. He was a bit shorter than her with dark brown hair and gray eyes, and wore evening clothes much like the ones Holmes and Watson had on. The two looked like they'd been running for a good while, as both were red-faced and were breathing hard, and they looked so much alike that they had to be brother and sister. Once Holmes realized that, and once he saw the stunned, frightened expressions on both their faces, he immediately knew who they were, and who they had once tried to be earlier that evening.

They stopped as soon as they were just in front of them. The female opened her mouth but looked too shocked to speak, so the male, presumably her brother, decided to speak for her. "What happened?" he asked in a somewhat commanding voice.

Holmes was about to reply when Watson interrupted him with a question of his own. "Pardon me but, who are you two?"

"Just tell us, please!" the female blurted out in an unexpected fashion. Holmes could see as well as hear that she was on the verge of tears.

Watson raised his eyebrows again, but didn't give an immediate reply. Instead, he turned to his old friend, who gave him a nod as permission to let them both know. Watson only pressed his lips together anxiously before turning back to the brother and sister before them.

"She jumped out of a second-story window," he explained as calmly as possible, "And, just a while ago, she had an encounter with a madman in a black cloak. She was lucky that my colleague and I were there to help her."

By now, although they received the explanation they desired, the sister had begun to cry while her brother had taken her hand in his and wrapped his arm around her shoulder to console her. Through the tears that seemed to come two at a time from her now red eyes, the sister managed to say, "I knew something like this would happen!"

Watson frowned and sighed in sympathy, unintentionally, and rather unexpectedly, causing Holmes to do the same. "I'm sorry that it did," the doctor said, "And, forgive me, but, I still don't know whom either of you are."

"Never mind names," the brother said, "Let's say for now that we're friends of hers."

"You know this woman?" Watson asked in surprise.

"Yes," the lad nodded, "And where are you taking her?"

"I'm a doctor," Watson replied, "We're trying to get her to immediate aid."

Just then, Holmes, feeling the usual need to put his own voice in the conversation, spoke up for the first time, making everyone look up at him. "Well we obviously can't do that if we're on foot," he said, "It's too far."

"Wait," the brother suddenly said, pointing in the direction behind them, "I think I see a cab over there."

Happy to hear any mention of a cab at all, Holmes looked in the direction the boy pointed out. Sure enough, to everyone's relief, a miniature black carriage pulled by two trotting horses was making its way down the road toward them. Not willing to let this opportunity swiftly pass him by, Holmes turned around and said to everyone with his usual commanding ease, "Stay here." Without another word, he turned again and hurried hastily toward the cab.

Watson watched silently until his arm was pulled on by the sister, who had managed to stop weeping but still kept the look of pure desperation on her face. "Doctor, please, let us come with you," she said, "If she's seriously hurt, I, I'd never forgive myself!"

Before Watson could give his reply, though he knew her genuine concern, he turned to her brother to see if he agreed with her. He gave him only a slight nod, allowing Watson to speak as calmly but as seriously as possible to the clearly distraught young woman, "Very well, you may. But you must promise me that you will remain calm, and that you will give me appropriate room to work with. Understood?"

The sister, in response, sniffed back her tears and replied in the most composed way she could, "Of course."

"Come then," her brother then said as he took her by the arm, "We need to hurry."

Watson and the young woman both nodded in agreement, and all three rushed quickly over to where Holmes stood on the far side of the street, waiting for them. He held the door open, and was waving ecstatically at them to hurry inside. And they did. First Watson, then the sister and brother, and finally Holmes took their seats inside the cab before he closed the door. Once Watson gave the address, they all sighed in a complicated mixture of emotions as they felt the cab move forward.

Throughout the ride, no one spoke. If they did, communication was silent, only done through expressions that were easily readable to someone like Sherlock Holmes or the common observer.

Josette didn't know if she could cry any more tears if she wished. It seemed that, for the moment anyway, her eyes had been made dry, save for perhaps one or two she felt dance like the raindrops outside down her cheeks. She was sure she looked hysterical both earlier and now to the both Dr. Watson, who sat next to her, and Mr. Holmes, who sat across next to Victor, but she couldn't have cared less. Her eyes were locked on her sleeping cousin, and it felt as though her heart had been forcibly torn in two as she saw both the dark red blood seeping from her wounds and the purple-gray bruises begin to form in various places. Still, she would remain strong, she told herself. She had to if she, and Esmé, were to make it through the night.

Victor, on the other hand, in a rare moment, did not know what to feel about the sight before him. Here he was, sitting next to one of the men he admired most, and yet, to enjoy it would have made him a heartless shell of a young man. And as he looked at Esmé, who looked almost nothing like the lively and vivacious young lady he'd known most of his life, all he found himself able to do was to sigh in bitterness and put his head in his hand. As the only male available in his family since his _oncle _was missing, he felt failure in his responsibility to see to the well-being of both his sister and his cousin begin to creep up on him one step at a time. He feared that, before the night was over, his mind would age before his body would.

After what felt like an endless sense of dreariness spent in confusion, the cab pulled to a stop. Watson looked outside and immediately looked relieved when he saw the familiar sight of his front door. Mindful that Holmes had already paid the cab, he wasted no time in opening the door and rushing out. Josette, Victor, and Holmes, needing no invitation, quickly followed suit up the stairs and then into Watson's house.

Once inside, Watson told everyone to remain quiet, as his wife Mary was asleep. They then followed him into the parlor, which was lit by only two or three candles and a fire still burning in the fireplace. No one said anything as the doctor gently laid the Masked Gypsy on the guilt lounge chair. It was only when he removed his coat and gloves and rolled up his sleeves that Josette felt the need to break the silence.

"Is there anything we can do doctor?" she asked.

"You can try to keep her comfortable if she awakens," he replied. Holmes, Josette, and Victor then stepped aside to give him some space as he proceeded toward the chair and began his examination.

First, he removed the golden wrist band and glove from one of her arms and pressed his fingers to her bare wrist. But then, right after checking her pulse, he heard what sounded like a moan, and instantly looked to see her moving slightly. Watson knew what that meant. Though he was a bit happy that she was regaining consciousness, as a doctor, he would have preferred it the other way around.

Still holding her wrist, he quickly turned to his former colleague. "Holmes, get me a bromide."

"Right," Holmes nodded. All three then watched as he rushed further into the house, where Watson kept most of his medical supplies. But another moan that escaped from the woman's lips immediately caused them to return their attention to her.

For a long time, Esmé had seen nothing but darkness, feeling as though she were floating in a formless void. Now, it seemed as if her body had awoken before she fully did, because she could now feel herself lying on what she soon realized was not a bed, but rather a long couch. Wondering wildly where she was, she forced her heavy eyes to open. What first entered her sight were two small but bright lights, and another more brilliant one underneath. It wasn't long after her vision began to clear that she found that the first two lights were candles on a mantelpiece, and the third was a bright, orange fire going in the fireplace. However, she also had the strong feeling that she was not alone. Esmé forced her head to move, and she turned it slowly to the right. The first person she recognized – by his warm, kindly, gray-eyed face – as Dr. Watson. And she assumed immediately that she was in his house. She had given him permission to give her medical aid.

However, nothing could have prepared her for what she beheld next. After turning her head further to the right, she saw two more people standing over the side of what she now realized was a lounge chair, and they had faces that she'd know anywhere. Her cousins, Josette and Victor. Once she realized that, her eyes quickly widened, and she opened her mouth to speak, to ask them what they were doing here, how they were here, when Victor put his finger to his lips and shushed her.

"We know what happened," he explained in a voice intended to calm her, "We were told everything."

Esmé then noticed Josette lean over the high side of the chair, and immediately noticed the redness still present in her eyes, a clear indication that she'd been crying. Knowing that she'd caused herself to be put in danger, after promising earlier that she wouldn't, Esmé felt the weight of it being pressed on her shoulders like an invisible force, and she met her cousin's sad expression with her own. This time, nothing was going to stop her from saying what she needed to.

"Oh I'm so sorry," she said, not caring how she sounded saying it, "Both of you."

Josette quickly raised her arm and rested her hand on her shoulder, all the while trying to smile, even if she herself still looked sad. "We can go over apologies later," she tried to assure her, "Everything will be all right."

Though Esmé knew her intent, she could still feel the uneasiness behind her calm exterior. Even so, she decided for her sake not to show it herself, and imitated her cousin's composure the best she could.

Fortunately, she quickly found something else to turn her attention to, as right then, a man entered the room holding a cup of what she assumed to be water in one hand, and something she couldn't see in the other. The moment she saw him, no matter how safe she felt with the doctor, Esmé's eyes widened almost instinctively when she saw his colleague, the detective Mr. Holmes, who raised his eyebrows as soon as he saw her.

"Ah," he said, "so we're awake at last."

"Holmes!" Dr. Watson said in an annoyed tone as he turned to him. Without another word, he took both the cup and the other thing he was holding, and Esmé saw that it was a small white pill. She then looked back at Dr. Watson, who, upon seeing her concern, slowly held them out to her.

"Just lie still," he said, "This will help you relax."

With assurance and help from both her cousins, Esmé sat up a bit more on the lounge chair before taking the bromide, followed by the water, and swallowing both. Once she did, Watson stood up from his chair and knelt down beside her.

"Now," he said, "can you tell me where it hurts the most?"

_Where it hurts the most_, Esmé repeated the question in her mind. She almost didn't know where to begin. Almost everything about her seemed to hurt. Not just her body, but her mind, her dignity, and every sense of well-being just seemed to melt away, and all in one night. She couldn't recall another time went she felt so low and pathetic. Still, she did not feel the need to be sarcastic to the good doctor, and replied with honesty, "It's mostly my right ankle, my left hip, and my left shoulder."

Watson nodded, but just as he was about to examine further, everyone heard what sounded like a feminine voice from the other side of the house. "John? Is that you?"

Watson sighed in frustration. Mary was awake, and he was unprepared to speak to her. Even so, he quickly stood up. But unfortunately, before he could head toward her, she walked into the room, and her tired eyes widened instantly as she saw the oddly dressed young woman sprawled out on the lounge chair in the parlor, surrounded by not just Mr. Holmes, but a young male and female. Quickly, she turned to her husband and opened her mouth to speak.

But before she could, he hastily walked toward her, took her hands in his, and said as calmly as possible, "Mary, darling, I know what you're going to ask, but I don't think now's the best time. However, I would like you to do something for me."

Still wide-eyed, Mary looked again at the scene before her, to make sure she was not seeing things, before she turned back to Watson and said, "Yes?"

"I need you to get me some bandaging material and three small towels filled with ice," he told her, "Can you do that for me? I promise I'll explain as soon as I can."

Though she would have preferred one at this moment, once she saw the sense of urgency in his eyes and felt it in his voice, Mary nodded in understanding. "Of course." She then hurried through the parlor to where Holmes went just a while ago, while Watson continued tending to his patient.

After taking off her right boot, and after her sash and belt holding her bag were removed, with gentle but firm hands Watson pressed his fingers on her ankle, hip, and then shoulder, feeling for anything unusual about each of them. Though Esmé let out small moans of pain as he did so, she did her best to remain as still as possible, biting her lip and fighting the urge to move when he touched a really sensitive spot. And even though the man was a doctor, she still didn't much like the notion of a man she barely knew laying his hands on her in such a way.

However, once he finished examining all three, his eyebrows raised and he looked somewhat surprised. "Amazing," he said, "Nothing is broken. Although, you can expect some rather serious bruising." Esmé felt a bit of her humor return as she felt a slight a smirk cross her face. She didn't need him to tell her that.

Shortly after though, his wife returned with the things Watson had asked for. Very quickly, he thanked her and then got to work, placing all of the towels containing ice on Esmé's ankle, hip, and shoulder. Once that was done, he took the bandaging material and wrapped some of it around her head and then around her arm where she'd been cut with the man's knife. By the time he was finished, Esmé was sure she looked a sight even more bizarre than what she saw the first time she wore her costume, but she was grateful to receive the care she did at the hands of none other than Mr. Holmes' former colleague.

All the while, Holmes had stood beside Mary and watched. "The poor darling," she said, having found sympathy for the strangely dressed woman.

"Indeed," Holmes agreed without a hint of emotion in his voice.

"But just who is she?" Mary asked.

"I don't rightly know," Holmes replied, "But I do intend to find out."

Once his friend had finished bandaging the woman, Holmes at last seized the chance he'd been waiting for, and took him by the arm in order to speak with him. Watson, recognizing Holmes' usual method of getting his attention when he wanted to speak to him alone, stood up from where he was kneeling, leaving his patient for what he hoped would only be a few short minutes.

"Watson," Holmes said quietly, "I don't mean to interfere if I am, but I do wish to remind you that I'm still on a case."

He then looked at the still masked woman laying on the lounge chair, causing Watson to do the same. Both saw that she was now being comforted by the people who identified themselves as her friends, but Watson, using his deducing skills that he'd learned over the years, allowed himself to assume that they were more than mere friends.

He turned back to Holmes and asked just as quietly, "Must you interrogate now?"

"Well I'm afraid that if I don't I might not get another chance," he replied.

Watson only closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He knew very well that once the great detective had his mind set on something, there was no chance of stopping him. "Then if you must," he said, "may I advise you to be slow and steady? I do recall a friend of mine once saying that slow and steady wins the race."

"Quite," Holmes agreed, knowing very well whom he was speaking of. However, the situation at hand could ill afford great humor, and he knew it. Donning his most serious, interrogative expression, he stood straight and walked the few steps over to the chair, to the woman he'd been so bent on catching the past few days. Indeed, it almost alarmed him, seeing her within his grasp, and in a rather unforeseen way. His friend's advice echoed in his mind, and he remembered at the last instant to change his usual tone of voice.

He knelt down next to her just as Watson did. "Well then, Madam," he said, "I assume you're feeling at least a bit better?"

She sighed a long sigh before replying, "I will admit, I've felt better. But, I suppose I shall live after all." A joke he thought, but he detected no humor in her voice or on her face, at least, what he could see of her face.

"Then I can safely assume, considering tonight's events, that there is little to no chance of you running off from me again?" he asked.

The woman frowned, and blinked once, then twice, before nodding her head slightly. Now that she'd given him that answer, Holmes wasted no time in asking the question he'd been seeking the answer to for a good while.

"I suppose, then, that we've reached a moment of truth? … I suppose it's now time to see the woman behind the mask."

As soon as she heard that, Esmé felt as though she experienced two reactions at the same time. The first, she noticed, being that her heart had stopped, while the other was the sensation of it begin to beat as wildly as a hummingbird's wings against her chest, like a caged bird desperately wanting to be released, or flee in this case. She knew a moment like this would come, but she did not think it would come so soon. It seemed as though the black cat had finally caught his red mouse. She looked to her cousins for support, but both looked blankly at her. Josette, however, asked, "Shall I do it?"

Not knowing what to say at first, Esmé bit her lip for a moment, and then sighed again, before shaking her head and replying, "No … I'll do it."

She then looked back at Mr. Holmes, the man whom she felt so complicated towards, the man she wanted to flee from yet admire at the same time. Even so, knowing there was no chance of fleeing from him this time, Esmé reached her fingers up to her mask, which had become like a protective shield to her, and slowly removed it.

Though he had his suspicions of who he would see, Holmes nonetheless raised his eyebrows in surprise once he finally saw the young woman's face. It was a face he clearly remembered seeing, with tan skin, large brown eyes, and surrounded by long, very dark hair. It took him a few seconds to find his voice.

"Why, _Mademoiselle _de Beaumont, we meet again," he declared.

"De Beaumont?" Watson asked, having heard that name before.

"Astonishing, isn't it?" Holmes replied, "The elusive Masked Gypsy is none other than the daughter of _Monsieur _Jean-Pierre de Beaumont, the missing ballet master of the local opera house."

"Are you certain?" Watson asked.

"Oh I never forget a face I find interesting. Especially if the person is equally as interesting."

Hearing those words she'd remembered speaking only yesterday, which now seemed so long ago, Esmé felt even more vulnerable and trapped than she did before. Determined to escape it in any way she could, she sat up to the best of her ability and declared in a clear voice, "My name is Esmé. And these are my cousins, Josette and Victor. They helped me."

She gestured toward them, and they both reluctantly nodded in agreement.

"What I've been doing is not what everyone thinks!" she then insisted before anyone else could speak up.

Right then, in that moment, all the emotions that she'd kept bottled up inside for no one to see, ever since her father disappeared, had proved too hard to contain any longer. Sadness for herself and for her family, anger at how things had turned out, the recent fear of facing a violent death, and the relief of escaping it, all boiled like hot water until the water was unleashed in the form of tears, in the presence of all in the room. Almost immediately, she felt ashamed and embarrassed, both of which only seemed to make her cry harder.

Holmes unconsciously raised his eyebrows at what he was now seeing. Not that he'd never seen a woman cry before, but how strangely this crying woman seemed to affect him. No longer did he see a stubborn woman, intent on thumbing her nose at him and fleeing him at every chance she got. He now saw a girl who had once determined to prove herself in the eyes of the disapproving, yet seemed to fail. Indeed, she seemed a bit like himself in that regard.

However, putting odd emotions aside, Holmes reached for a handkerchief and handed it to the girl – Esmé, and asked, "If you are willing then, would you please explain to me the reasons for your actions?"

Esmé took the handkerchief, but kept it in her hands rather than putting it to her face. After another drawn-out sigh, what he saw as an attempt to regain her former composure, she nodded, and began her explanation. "Well first, I think you should know that everything I'm about to say is true."

"That's all that I desire," Holmes nodded.

Esmé sniffed before continuing. "I'm not the thief who stole from Lords Loxley and Hampton. The real thief was Lord Wellington. I was returning the jewels to them."

Holmes raised his eyebrows with interest. "They personally asked you to do this?"

"No," Esmé shook her head, "I did it alone, with a bit of help from my cousins."

"And how do you know Lord Wellington is the thief?"

"When I first went into his house," Esmé explained, "I overheard him speaking with a friend of his. And, I will admit, I did not know until then."

"Then may I ask what you were doing in his house if not for the jewels?"

Esmé sighed again before continuing. "In truth, I was there because, a week earlier, a saw this friend of his, a landlord, take a pearl necklace from the wife of a man he was throwing out. I assumed, correctly, that Wellington would be keeping them in his own home for safe-keeping. And that day, was the day that, my father went missing."

"I see," Holmes nodded, "And, why did you act so rashly?"

"I have two reasons," Esmé replied, "First, I did not believe anyone would help that man and his wife. And, as for the other, since my father had gone missing, I thought I could better get your attention in this way."

Again, Holmes raised his eyebrows and nodded, but not in understanding. In fact, for all his rather brilliant deductive reasoning, it remained a mystery to him as to why a seventeen-year-old girl with upper-middle-class upbringing could act so daringly and so unlike that which was expected of someone like her. Holmes may have learned over the years to expect the unexpected, but one could say he was rather unprepared for something like this.

"My dear," he said in a non-accusatory tone, "why did you think you could handle something like this on your own?"

Esmé sniffed again, and this time used her handkerchief on both her eyes. "I did for a while. And I told you, my cousins were helping me."

"That doesn't matter," Holmes shook his head, "Did you have even the slightest idea of the dangers that awaited you in such a large city, and at night?"

"Yes, I did," Esmé nodded.

"And yet you still behaved as you did," Holmes said, "Tell me, _Mademoiselle_, how do you think your father would feel if he knew what you were doing? I don't have children, but if you were my daughter, I can tell you I would very likely have gone mad with worry."

Esmé blinked twice, as if to hold back fresh tears, before she nodded.

"And besides, why did you not tell me when I came to investigate?" he asked, "In fact, why did you not come to me for help in the first place as soon as you discovered your father was missing?"

In a bit of an unexpected response, Esmé laughed slightly as though she'd been told a joke, one she seemed to view as cruel. "Would you have believed me?" she asked in a rather cynical tone, "And to answer your second question, would you have willingly taken my case, or would you have turned me away?"

Though a question, it didn't take long for Holmes to realize that he already knew the answer, as all he found he could do was simply look slightly away from her in disbelief. The spotlight had somehow spontaneously turned on him, and strangely enough, it affected him somewhat differently than he was used to, and he didn't like it. In fact, he found himself somewhat agreeing with the girl. He very likely would have turned her away. But these sorts of things didn't bother him much before, so why did it seem to now?

When he was able to look back at her, he frowned as he saw her crying again. And this time, she didn't bother to use the handkerchief again. "You don't know how much I love my papa," she said before sniffing again, "He's old and ill and, I have no idea where he is. None of us do."

Holmes looked at her cousins, but both of them shook their heads sadly. When he looked back at Esmé again, their eyes met in a strange manner, but one that wasn't entirely unknown to either of them. "I only wish to see him well and safe. So, if you have any compassion at all, please. Help us."

Esmé looked away from him, and continued to weep, for herself, for her father, for the people she loved and yet seemed to fail. She couldn't recall another time when she felt so helpless and low. As she heard the rain continue to fall outside, she wished she could simply walk away and disappear into the night like a ghost. At least there people would mistake her tears for raindrops. She felt miserable yet relieved at the same time, such a strange combination.

Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice say her name for what seemed the first time. "Esmé." She turned to see that it was Mr. Holmes, and that he still looked serious, but also seemed to have a faint sense of concern across his face.

"_Mademoiselle_, you may be right," he said, "I don't usually take cases such as these. But, considering what's happened for the past few days, I suppose I can make an exception. I can't make any guarantees for the moment, but, I will do what I can concerning your father."

Upon hearing those words, for perhaps that first time that night, a small but genuine smile slowly donned on Esmé's face. "That was all I needed to hear. _Merci_, _Monsieur_."

Holmes nodded, and as he did Esmé thought she could see a faint smile appear on his face as well. "Good then, but, are you sure you don't know where he could possibly be?"

Esmé opened her mouth to speak, to say no. But suddenly, a spark of memory suddenly flared in her mind, and her mouth came open as she remembered a crucial clue. "Well, I did find a note at the last place where he was," she replied.

"What did it say?" Holmes asked.

"It said, 'Do not bother looking for him, J.M.'"

"J.M." Holmes repeated. He had heard of those initials before, and as he remembered who they belonged to, his eyes widened, his own mouth came open, and before long he found himself staring out into space as realization crept like a sneaking predator into his mind.

"Holmes," he suddenly heard Watson say. Immediately, he seemed jolted out of his deep thoughts, and he looked first at the three de Beaumont children, and then at his old friend and his wife. Knowing he needed to be in a stable position to announce his news, Holmes stood back up on both his feet. And yet, all he could look at was the rain that continued to pour freely on the largest city in the world.

"Watson," he said, "I believe we may possibly have a case re-opened."

Once he made his declaration known, everyone in the room could only wonder at what he meant, especially Esmé. It seemed unknown to everyone, even Holmes, what could possibly be in store for all of them. However, what the great detective and the former vigilante beside him knew for sure was that they had left one road behind, and were starting on a new one, this time together. As lightning flashed and thunder sounded outside, inside both had become set on finishing this road as well. Nothing was going to stop either of them from personally seeing to it.

**_To be continued_…**

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_Reviews would be appreciated._

Another story completed! Hope you all liked it! Thanks for the reviews and encouragement! Be sure to check out my other stories, especially the follow-up to this one.

**The Case of the Sinister Conspiracy: **Esmé, Josette, and Victor join forces with Holmes and Watson. A strange string of clues leads them all to the City of Lights itself, where they intend to solve the mystery once and for all. Where is Esmé's father? Who took him? And why?


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